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ORIGINAL POEMS FOR INFANT MINDS. 





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OEIGINAL POEMS 



FOB 



INFANT MINDS. 



By ANN and JANE TA YLOR. 



" In books, or works, or heahhAiI play. 
Let my first years be past. 
That I may give for every day 
S<xne good account at last." 

WaUs 



T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW 

KDIlfBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 
1881. 






7 




^ontzntjs. 



A TRUE BTOBT, 




9 


THE bird's nest, 




12 


THE HAND-POST, 




.. 15 


SPRING, 




17 


SUMMER, 




18 


AUTUMN, 




20 


WINTER, ... ... ... ... 




.. 99. 


TO A BUTTERFLY ON GIVING IT LIBERTY, 




28 


THE TEMPEST, 




24 


THE CHURCHYARD, 




26 


MORNING, 




28 


EVENING, 




29 


THE IDLE BOY, 




80 


THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY, 




81 


THE LITTLE FISHERMAN, 




88 


OLD AGE, 




85 


THE APPLE-TREE, 




87 


THE DISAPPOINTMENT, ... 




88 


THE SHEPHERD BOY, ... 




89 


THE ROBIN, ... 




42 


THE child's monitor. 




48 


THE BOYS AND THE APPLE-TREE, 




44 


the WOODEN DOLL AND THE WAX DOLL, 




46 


IDLE RICHARD AND THE GOAT, 




48 


NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE, 




49 


THE TRUANT BOYS, 




50 


GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP, 




62 



% 



THB TWO Q&BDENa, 

HI HOTHEB, ... 

fHK PAIukOE AND TKS COTTAOE, 



FALBC AL&BHB, 

THB BNAIL, ... 
THE HOLIDATS, 
OLp SARAH, ... 

THK QLEAMKB, 

THB nos, 

ORAZT KOGBItT, 
THE JIOHTINO Bia 
THE HODHTAINB, 



a MtBTBBS, 

X MODBt, . 



E LADDnt, .. 



VUl CONTENTS. 








POOR DONKKY^S EPITAPH, 




... 172 


THE ORPHAN, 








174 


RISING IN THE MORNING, 








.. 175 


GOING TO BED AT NIGHT, 








.. 175 


FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISE, 








176 


MT OLD SHOES, 








.. 178 


TO GEORGE PULLING BUDS, 








179 


A NEW -TEAR'S GIFT, ... 








179 


THE CRUEL THORN, ... 








182 


THE linnet's NEST, ... 








.. 183 


THE ITALIAN GREYHOUND, 








184 


THE USE OF SIGHT, ... 








.. 185 


THE morning's TASK, 








188 


THE OAK, 








190 


CARELESS MATILDA, ... 








191 


THE MUSHROOM GIRL, 








194 


BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES, 








195 


THE VINE, 








.. 198 


THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE, 








199 


THE POPPY, ... 








201 


THE VIOLET, ... 








202 


THE WAY TO BE HAPPY, 








203 


CONTENTED JOHN, 








.. 203 


THE GAUDY FLOWER, ... 








... 205 


NEGLIGENT MARY, 








... 206 


DECEMBER NIGHT, 








... 207 


POVERTY, 








... 208 


THE VILLAGE GREEN, ... 








... 209 


RUIN AND SUCCESS, ... 








211 


DEW AND HAIL, 








213 


CRUST AND CRUMB, ... 








... 215 


THE TRUANT, 








... 216 



i 



OEIGINAL POEMS. 



-M- 



A TRUE STORY. 

Little Ann and her mother were walking one day 
Through London^s wide city so fair, 

And business obliged them to go by the way 
That led them through Cavendish Square. 

And as they passed by the great house of a lord, 

A beautiful chariot there came, 
To take some most elegant ladies abroad. 

Who straightway got into the sama 

The ladies in feathers and jewels were seen, 

The chariot was painted all o'er. 
The footmen behind were in silver and green, 

The horses were prancing before. 



^ 



10 A TRUE STORY. 

Little Ann by her mother walked silent and sad, 
A tear trickled down from her eye, 

Till her mother said, " Ann, I should be very glad 
To know what it is makes you cry." 

^' Mamma," said the child, '' see that carriage so fair. 
All covered with varnish and gold : 
Those ladies are riding so charmingly there. 
While we have to walk in the cold. 

" You say God is kind to the folks that are good; 
But surely it cannot be true. 
Or else I am certain, almost, that he would 
Give such a fine carriage to yoiu" 

** Look there, little girl," said her mother, " and see 
What stands at that very coach door ; 
A poor ragged beggar, and listen how she 
A halfpenny tries to implore. 

" All pale is her face, and deep sunk is her eye, 
And her hands look like skeleton's bones ; 
She has got a few rags, just about her to tie, 
And her naked feet bleed on the stones." 

" Dear ladies," she cries, and the tears trickle down, 
" Relieve a pooi* beggar, I pray ; 
I've wandered all hungry about this wide town. 
And not ate a morsel to-day. 



A TRUE STORY. .11 

'* My father and mother are long ago dead, 
My brother sails over the sea ; 
And IVe scarcely a rag, or a morsel of bread, 
As plainly, I'm sure, you may see. 

" A fever I caught, which was terribly bad, 
But no nurse or physic had I ; 
An old dirty shed was the house that I had. 
And only on straw could I lia 

** And now that I'm better, yet feeble and faint, 
And famished, and naked, and cold, 
I wander about with my grievous complaint, 
And seldom get aught but a scold. 

" Some will not attend to my pitiful call, 
Some think me a vagabond cheat ; 
And scarcely a creature relieves me, of all 
The thousands that traverse the street. 

" Then, ladies, dear ladies, your pity bestow : " — 
Just then a tall footman came round. 
And asking the ladies which way they would go, 
The chariot turned off with a bound. 

" Ah, see, little girl ! " then her mother replied, 
" How foolish those murmurs have been ; 
You have but to look on the contrary side, 
To learn both your folly and sin. 



12 THE bird's nest. 

" This poor little beggar is hungry and cold, 
No mother awaits her return ; 
And while such an object as this you behold, 
Your heart should with gratitude bum, 

" Your house and its comforts, your food and your 
friends, 
Tis favour in God to confer, — 
Have you any claim to the bounty he sends ? 
Who makes you to differ from her ? 

*^ A coach, and a footman, and gaudy attire, 
Give little true joy to the breast : 
To be good is the thing you should chiefly desire, 
And then leave to God all the rest" 




THE BIRD'S NEST. 

Now the sun rises bright and soars high in the air. 

The hedge-rows in blossoms are drest ; 
The sweet little birds to the meadows repair. 
And pick up the moss and the lambs' wool and hair, 
To weave each her beautiful nest. 

High up in some tree, far away from the town, 

Where they think naughty boys cannot creep, 
They build it with twigs, and they line it with down, 



THE bird's nest. 13 

And lay their neat eggs, speckled over with brown, 
And sit till the little ones peep. 

Then come, little boy, shall we go to the wood, 

And climb up yon very tall tree ; 
And while the old birds are gone out to get food, 
Take down the warm nest and the chirruping brood, 

And divide them betwixt you and me ? 

Oh no ! I am sure 'twould be cruel and bad 

To take their poor nestlings away. 
And, after the toil and the trouble they've had. 
When they think themselves safe, and are singing so 
glad. 

To spoil all their work for our play. 

Suppose some great creature, a dozen yards high. 

Should stalk up at night to your bed. 
And out of the window away with you fly, 
Nor stop while you bid your dear parents good-bye. 
Nor care for a word that you said; 

• 

And take you, not one of your friends could tell 
where. 

And fasten you down with a chain ; 
And feed you with victuals you never could bear. 
And hardly allow you to breathe the fresh air, 

Nor ever to come back again; — 



14 THE bird's KEST. 

Oh, how for your dearest mamma would you sigh, 

And long to her bosom to run ; 
And try to break out of your prison, and cry, 
And dread the huge monster, so cruel and sly, 

Who carried you off for his fun ! 

Then say, little boy, shall we climb the tall tree ? 

Ah, no ! but remember instead, 
Twould almost as cruel and terrible be, 
As if such a monster to-night you should see, 

To snatch you away from your bed ! 

Then sleep, little innocents, sleep in your nest, 

To steal you I know would be wrong ; 
And when the next summer in green shall be drest, 
And your merry music shall join with the rest, 
You'll pay us for all with a song. 

Away to the woodlands well merrily hie. 

And sit by yon very tall tree ; 
And rejoice, as we hear your sweet carols on high, 
With silken wings soaring amid the blue sky, 

That we left you to sing and be free. 



THE HAND-POST. 15 



THE HAND-POST. 

The night was dark, the sun was hid 
Beneath the mountain gray, 

And not a single star appeared 
To shoot a silver ray. 

Across the heath the owlet flew. 
And screamed along the blast. 

And onward, with a quickened step. 
Benighted Henry passed. 

At intervals, amid the gloom, 
A flash of lightning played. 

And showed the ruts with water filled. 
And the black hedge's shade. 

Again in thickest darkness plunged. 
He groped his way to find ; 

And now he thought he spied beyond 
A form of horrid kind. 

In deadly white it upward rose. 

Of cloak or mantle bare. 
And held its naked arms across, 

To catch him by the hair. 



-\ 



16 THE HAND-POST. 

Poor Henry felt his blood run cold 
At what before him stood ; 

Yet like a man did he resolve 
To do the best he could. 

So calling all his courage up, 

He to the goblin went ; 
And eager, through the dismal gloom, 

His piercing eyes he bent. 

But when he came well-nigh the ghost 
That gave him such affidght, 

He clapped his hands upon his sides, 
And loudly laughed outright. 

For there a friendly post he found, 
The stranger's road to mark; 

A pleasant sprite waa this to see 
For Henry in the dark. 

" Well done!" said he, " one lesson wise 
Tve learned, beyond a doubt : 
Whatever frightens me again, 
ril try to find it out. 

" And when I hear an idle tale 
Of goblins and a ghost, 
111 tell of this, my lonely walk, 
And the tall white hand-post." 



SPRING. 17 



SPRING. 

See, see how the ices are melting away, 
The rivers have burst from their chain ! 

The woods and the hedges with verdure look gay. 
And daisies enamel the plain. 

The sun rises high, and shines warm o'er the dale; 

The orchards with blossoms are white ; 
The voice of the woodlark is heard in the vale, 

And the cuckoo returns from her flight. 

Young lambs sport and frisk on the side of the hill; 

The honey-bee wakes from her sleep ; 
The turtle-dove opens her soft-cooing bill; 

And snowdrops and primroses peep. 

All nature looks active, delightful, and gay. 

The creatures begin their employ ; 
Ah 1 let me not be less industrious than they, 

An idle, an indolent boy. 

Now, while in the spring of my vigour and bloom. 
In the paths of fair learning I'll run ; 

Nor let the best part of my being consume 
With nothing of consequence done. 

(666) 2 



18 SUMMER. 

Thaff, if to my lessons with care I attend, 
And store up the knowledge I gain, 

When the winter of age shall upon me descend, 
Twill cheer the dark season of pain. 




SUMMER. 

The heat of the summer comes hastily on ; 

The fruits are transparent and clear ; 
The buds and the blossoms of April are gone, 

And the deep-coloured cherries appear. 

The blue sky above us is bright and serene, 

No cloud on its bosom remains ; 
The woods, and the fields, and the hedges are green, 

And the hay-cocks smell sweet from the plains. 

Down far in the valley, where bubbles the spring 
Which soft through the meadow-land glides, 

The lads from the mountain the heavy sheep bring. 
And shear the warm coat from their sides. 

Ah I let me lie down in some shady retreat 

Beside the meandering stream ; 
For the sun darts abroad an unbearable heat, 

And bums with his overhead beam. 



SUMMER. 19 

There, all the day idle, my limbs 1*11 extend, 

Famied soft to delicious repose, 
While round me a thousand sweet odours ascend 

From every gay wood-flower that blows. 

But hark ! from the lowlands what sounds do I hear? 

The voices of pleasure so gay ! 
The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear 

The heat of the hot summer's day. 

While some with bright scythe singing shrill to the 
The tall grass and buttercups mow, [stone, 

Some spread it with forks, and by others 'tis thrown 
Into sweet-smelling cocks in a row. 

Then since joy and glee with activity join, 

This moment to labour I'll rise, 
While the idle love best in the shade to recline, 

And waste precious time as it flies. 

To waste precious time we can never recall, 

Is waste of the wickedest kind : 
One short day of life has more value than all 

The gold that in India they And. 

Not diamonds that brilliantly beam in the mine, 
For time, precious time, should be given ; 

For gems can but make us look gaudy and fine. 
But time can prepare us for heaven^ 



20 AUTUMN. 



AUTUMN. 

The suu is now rising above the old trees, 

His beams on the silver dew play; 
The gossamer tenderly waves in the breeze; 

And the mists are fast rolling away. 

Let us leave the warm bed and the pillow of down, 

The morning fair bids us arise, 
Little boy, for the shadows of midnight are flown. 

And the sunbeams peep into our eyes 

Well pass by the garden that leads to the gate, — 

But where is its gaiety now ? 
The Michaelmas-daisy blows lonely and late. 

And the yellow leaf whirls from the bougL 

Last night the glad reapers their harvest-home sang, 
And stored the f uU gamers with grain ; 

The woods and the echoes with merry sounds rang. 
As they bore the last sheaf from the plain. 

But hark I from the woodlands the sound of a gun — 
The wounded bird flutters and dies : 

Where can be the pleasure, for nothing but fun, 
To shoot the poor thing as it flies? 



AUTUMN. 21 

The timid hare, too, in fright and dismay, 
Runs swift through the brushwood and grass. 

She turns and she winds to get out of their way, 
But the cruel dogs won't let her pasa 

Ah i poor little partridge and pheasant and hare, 
I wish they would leave you to live ! 

For my part, I wonder how people can bear 
To see the distress that they give. 

When Reynard at midnight steals down to the farm. 
And kills the poor chickens and cocks. 

Then rise. Father Goodman, there can be no harm 
In chasing a thief of a fox. 

Or you, Mr. Butcher, and. Fisherman, you 
May follow your trades, I must own : 

So chimneys are swept, when they want it — ^but who 
Would sweep them for pleasure alone ? 

If men would but think of the torture they give 

To creatures that cannot complain, 
They surely would let the poor animals live. 

And not make a sport of their pain ! 



22 WINTER. 



WINTER. 

Behold the gray branches that stretch from the trees, 

Nor blossom nor verdure they wear ! 
They rattle and shake to the northerly breeze, 

And wave their long arms in the air. 

The sun hides his face in a mantle of cloud; 

The roar of the ocean is heard; 
The wind through the wood bellows hoarsely and loud ; 

And overland sails the sea-bird. 

Come in, little Charles, for the snow patters down, 

No paths in the garden remain ; 
The streets and the houses are white in the town, 

And white are the fields and the plain. 

Come in, little Charles, from the tempest of snow, 
Tis dark, and the shutters we'll close ; 

We'll put a fresh fagot to make the fire glow, 
Secure from the storm as it blows. 

But how many wretches, without house or home, 

Are wandering naked and pale ; 
Obliged on the snow-covered common to roam, 

And pierced by the pitiless gale 1 



TO A BUTTERFLY ON GIVING IT LIBERTY. 23 

No house for their shelter, no victuals to eat, 

No bed for their limbs to repose; 
Or a crust, dry and mouldy, the best of their meat, 

And their pillow — a pillow of snows ! 

Be thankful, my child, that it is not your lot 

To wander, or beg at the door ; 
A father, and mother, and home you have got, 

And yet you deserved them no mora 

Be thankful, my child, and forget not to pay 

Your thanks to that Father above 
Who gives you so many more blessings than they, 

And crowns your whole life with his love. 



TO A BUTTERFLY ON GIVING IT 

LIBERTY. 

Poor harmless insect, thither fly. 
And life's short hour enjoy ; 

Tis all thou hast, and why should I 
That little all destroy ? 

Why should my tyrant will suspend 

A life by wisdom given ; 
Or sooner bid thy being end 

Than was designed by Heaven ? 



24 THE TEMPEST. 

Lost to the joy that reason knows, 
Thy bosom, fair and frail, 

Loves best to wander where the rose 
Perfumes the pleasant gale. 

To bask upon the sunny bed, 
The damask flower to kiss ; 

To rove along the bending shade, 
Is all thy little bliss. 

Then flutter still thy silken wings, 
Li rich embroidery drest ; 

And sport upon the gale that flings 
Sweet odours from his vest. 



THE TEMPEST. 

See the dark vapour clouds the sky ! 

The thunder rumbles round and round ; 
The lightning's flash begins to fly ; 

Big drops come pattering on the ground : 
The frightened birds with ruffled wing. 
Fly through the air, and cease to sing. 

Now nearer rolls the mighty peal ; 

Licessant thunder roars aloud ; 
Tossed by the winds the tall oaks reel, 

The f ork^ lightning breaks the cloud ; 



THE TEMPEST. 25 

Deep torrents drench the swimming plain, 
And sheets of fire descend with rain. 

Tis God who on the tempest rides, 
And with a word directs the storm ; 

Tis at his nod the wind subsides, 
Or heaps of' heavy vapours form : 

In fire and cloud he walks the sky. 

And lets his stores of tempest fly. 

Yet though beneath his power divine 

My life depends upon his care. 
Each right endeavour shall be mine — 

Of every danger I'll beware ; 
Far from the metal bell- wire stand, 
Nor on the door-lock keep my hand. 

When caught amidst the open field, 

I'll not seek shelter from a tree ; 
Though from the falling rain a shield. 

More dreadful might the lightning be : 
Its tallest boughs might draw the fire. 
And I, with sudden stroke, expire. 

They need not dread the stormy day, 
Or lightning flashing from the sky. 

Who walk in wisdom's pleasant way. 
And always are prepared to die : 



26 THE CHTBCHTABIX 

I know no other way to hear 
The thunder roll without a fear. 



THE CHUKCHYAIID. 

The moon rises bright in the east, 

The stars with purple brilliancy shine ; 
The songs of the woodlands have ceased ; 

And still is the low of the kine ; 
The men from their work on the hill 

Trudge homeward, with pitchfork and flail; 
The buzz of the hamlet is still, 

And the bat flaps his wings in the gale. 

And see from those darkly green trees 

Of cypress and holly and yew. 
That wave their long arms in the breeze, 

The old village church is in view. 
The owl, from her ivied retreat. 

Screams hoarse to the winds of the night ; 
And the clock, with its solemn repeat, 

Has tolled the departure of light 

My child, let us wander alone. 

When half the wide world is in bed. 

And read the gray mouldering stone 
That tells of the mouldering dead : 



THE CHURCHYARD. 27 

And let us remember it well, 

That we must as certainly die, 
Must bid the sweet daylight farewell, 

Green earth, and the beautiful sky 1 

You are not so healthy and gay, 

So young, and so active, and bright, 
That death cannot snatch you away, 

Or some dreadful accident smite. 
Here lie Both the young and the old, 

Confined in the coJOin so small. 
The earth covers over them cold. 

The grave-worm devours them all. 

In vain were the beauty and bloom 

That once o'er their bodies were spread ; 
Now, still in the desolate tomb. 

Each rests his inanimate head. 
Their fingers, so busy before. 

Shall silently crumble away; 
Nor even a smile, any more, 

About the pale countenance play. 

Then seek not, my child, as the best. 
The plea,sures which shortly must fade ; 

Let piety dwell in thy breast, 
And all of thy actions pervade : 



28 MORNIKO. 

And then, when beneath the green sod 
This active young body shall lie, 

Thy soul shall ascend to its God, 
To live with the blest in the sky. 



MORNING. 

Awake, little girl, it is time to arise, 

Come shake drowsy sleep from your eye ; 

The lark is now warbling his notes to the skies, 
And the sun is far mounted on high. 

Oh come, for the fields with gay flowers abound. 

The dewdrop is quivering still, 
The lowing herds graze in the pastures around. 

And the sheep-bell is heard from the hill. 

Oh come, for the bee has flown out of her bed, 

Impatient her work to renew ; 
The spider is weaving her delicate thread, 

Which brilliantly glitters with dew. 

Oh come, for the ant has crept out of her cell. 
And forth to her labour she goes ; 

She knows the true value of moments too well 
To waste them in idle repose. 



BVENING. 29 

Awake, little sleeper, and do not despise 

Of insects instruction to ask ; 
From your pillow with good resolutions arise, 

And cheerfully go to your task. 



EVENING. 

Little girl, it is time to retire to your rest; 

The sheep are put into the fold; 
The linnet forsakes us, and flies to her nest 

To shelter her young from the cold. 

The owl has flown out of his lonely retreat. 
And screams through the tall shady trees ; 

The nightingale takes on the hawthorn her seat. 
And ^gs to the soft dying breeza 

The sun appears now to have finished his race. 

And sinks once again to his rest ; 
But though we no longer can see his bright face, 

He leaves a gold streak in the west. 

Little girl, have you finished your daily employ 
With industry, patience, and care ? 

If SO, lay your head on your pillow with joy. 
And sleep away peacefully there. 



30 THE IDLE BOY. 

The moon through your curtains shall cheerfully peep, 

Her silver beams rest on your eyes ; 
And mild evening breezes shall fan you to sleep 

Till bright morning bid you arise. 



THE IDLE BOY. 

Young Thomas was an idle lad, 
Who lounged about all day ; 

And though he many a lesson had. 
He minded naught but play. 

He only cared for top and ball, 
Or marble, hoop, and kite ; 

But as for learning, that was all 
Neglected by him quite. 

In vain his mother's watchful eye, 

In vain his master's care ; 
He followed vice and vanity. 

And even learned to swear. 

And think you, when he grew a man. 

He prospered in his ways 1 
No ; wicked courses never can 

Bring good and happy days. 



THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY. 31 

Without a shilling in his purse, 

Or cot to call his own, 
Poor Thomas grew from bad to worse, 

And hardened as a stone. 

And oh ! it grieves me much to write 

His melancholy end ; 
Then let us leave the mournful sight, 

And thoughts of pity send. 

But yet may this important truth 

Our daily thoughts engage. 
That few who spend an idle youth 

Will see a happy age 



THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY. 

In a cottage upon the heath wild. 
That always was cleanly and nice. 

Lived William, a good little child, 
Who minded his parents' advica 

'Tis true he loved marbles and kite. 
And peg-top, and nine-pins, and ball ; 

But this I declare with delight, 
His book he loved better than alL 



32 THE INDUSTRIOUS BOT. 

In active and useful employ 

His young days were pleasantly spent ; 
While innocent pleasure and joy 

A smile to his countenance lent. 

Now see him to manhood arise : 
Still cheerfulness follows his way ; 

For as he is prudent and wise, 
He also is happy and gay. 

For riches his wife never sighed, 
Contented and happy was she ; 

"While William would sit by her side, 
With a sweet smiling babe on his knee. 

His garden so fruitful and neat, 

His cot by the side of the green, 
Crept over by jessamine sweet, 
' Where peeped the low casement between; 

These filled him with honest delight, 

Though many might view them with scorn; 

He went to bed cheerful at night, 
And cheerfully woke in the mom. 

But when he grew aged and gray. 

And found that life shortly would cease. 

He calmly awaited the day, 

And closed his old eyelids in peace. 



THE LITTLE FISHERMAN. 33 

Now this little tale was designed 

To be an example for me, 
That still I may happiness find, 

Whatever my station may -be. 



THE LITTLE FISHEEMAN. 

There was a little fellow once, 
And Harry was his name, 

And many a naughty trick had he,- 
I tell it to his shame. 

He minded not his friends' advice. 
But followed his own wishes ; 

And one most cruel trick of his 
Was that of catching fishes. 

His father had a little pond, 
Where often Harry went. 

And there in this unfeeling sport 
He many an evening spent 

One day he took his hook and bait 
And hurried to the pond. 

And there began the cruel game 
Of which he was so fond. 

(066) 3 



34 THE LITTLE FISHERMAN. 

And many a little fish he caught; 

And pleased was he to look, 
To see them writhe in agony, 

And struggle on the hook. 

At last, when having caught enough, 

And also tired himself, 
He hastened home, intending there 

To put them on a shell 

But as he jumped to reach a dish 

To put his fishes in, 
A large meat-hook, that hung close by, 

Did catch him by the chin. 

Poor Harry kicked and called aloud, 
And screamed, and cried, and roared. 

While from his wound the crimson blood 
In dreadful torrents poured. 

The maids came running, frightened much, 

To see him hanging there. 
And soon they took him from the hook. 

And set him in a chair. 

The surgeon came and stopped the blood. 
And bound his aching head ; 

And then they carried him upstairs, 
And laid him on his bed. 



OLD AGE. 35 

Conviction darted on his mind, 

As groaning there he lay, 
And with compunction then he thought 

About his cruel play. 

" And oh ! " said he, " poor little fish. 
What tortures they have borne ; 
While I, well plea,sed, have stood to see 
Their tender bodies torn ! 

" Though fishermen must earn their bread, 
And butchers too must slay. 
That can be no excuse for me 
Who do the same in play. 

" And now I feel how great the smart. 
How terrible the pain, 
I think, while I can feel myself, 
I will not fish again." 



OLD AGR 

Who is this that comes tottering along ? 

His footsteps are feeble and slow ; 
His beard has grown curling and long, 

And his hair is turned white as the snow. 



36 OLD AGE. 

He is falling quite into decay, 

Deep wrinkles have furrowed his cheek; 

He cannot be merry and gay, 
He is so exceedingly weak. 

Little stranger, his name is Old Age ; 

His journey will shortly be o'er ; 
He soon will leave life's busy stage, 

To sigh and be sorry no more. 

Little stranger, though healthy and strong, 
You now are so merry and brave. 

Like him you must totter ere long, 
Like him you must sink to the grave. 

Those limbs, which so actively play. 
That face beaming pleasure and mirth. 

Like his must fall into decay. 
And moulder away in the earth. 

Then, ere that dark season of night, 
When youth and its energies cease, 

Oh ! follow with zeal and delight 

Those paths which are pleasure and peace. 

So triumph and hope shall be nigh, 

"When failing and fainting your breath; 

And a light will enkindle your eye, 
Ere it closes for ever in death. 



THE APPLE-TBEE. 37 



THE APPLE-TREK 

Old Jobn had an apple-tree, healthy and green, 
Which bore the best codlins that ever were seen, 

So juicy, so mellow, and red ; 
And when they were ripe, he disposed of his store 
To children or any who passed by his door. 

To buy him a morsel of bread. 

Little Dick, his next neighbour, one often might see, 
With longing eye viewing this fine apple-tree. 

And wishing a codlin might falL 
One day as he stood in the heat of the sun. 
He began thinking whether he might not take one ; 

And then he looked over the walL 

And as he again cast his eye on the tree. 

He said to himself, " Oh, how nice they would be. 

So cool and refreshing to-day ! 
The tree is so full, and one only I'll take, 
And John cannot see if I give it a shake, 

And nobody is in the way." 

But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough, 
Remember, though John cannot see you just now. 
And no one to chide you is nigh. 



38 

There is One wKo, bj night just as well as by daj, 
Gan see all you do, and can hear all you say, 
Fnnn his glorious throne in the sky. 

Oh then, little boy, oome away from the tree. 
Lest tempted to this wicked act you should ba 

Twere better to starve than to steal ; 
For the great God,who even, through darknesscan look, 
Writes down every crime we commit in his book. 

Nor forgets what we try to conceal 



u 



THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Is tears to her mother poor Harriet came, 
Let US listen to hear what she says : 

Oh see, dear mamma, it is ponring with rain, 
We cannot go out in a chaisa 



'' All the week I have longed for this holiday so^ 
And fancied the minutes were hours ; 
And now that Pm dressed and all ready to go. 
Do look at those terrible showers ! " 

" I'm sorry, my dear," her kind mother replied, 
*' The rain disappoints us to-day ; 
But sorrow still more that you fret for a ride 
In such an extravagant way. 



THE SHEPHERD BOT. 39 

'^ These slight disappointments are sent to prepare 
For what may hereafter be£all ; 
For seasons of real disappointment and care, 
Which commonly happen to all. 

** For just like to-day, with its holiday lost, 
Is life and its comforts at best ; 

I 

Our pleasures are blighted, our purposes crossed. 
To teach us it is not our rest. 

'' And when those distresses and crosses appear 
With which you may shortly be tried, 
Youll wonder that ever you wasted a tear 
On merely the loss of a rida 

" But though the world's pleasures are fleeting and 
vain, 
Keligion is lasting and true ; 
Beal pleasure and peace in her paths you may gain, 
Nor will disappointment ensue." 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 

Upon a mountain's grassy steep, 
Where moss and heather grew, 

Young Colin wandered with his sheep. 
And many a hardship knew. 



40 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 

No downy pillow for his head, 

No sheltered home had he ; 
The green grass was his only bed, 

Beneath some shady tree ; 

Dry bread and water from the spring 
Composed his temperate fare : 

Yet he a thankful heart could bring, 
Nor felt a murmur there. 

Contented with his low estate, 

He often used to say 
He envied not the rich or great, 

More happy far than they. 

While 'neath some spreading oak he stood. 

Beside his browsing flocks, 
His soft pipe warbled through the wood 

And echoed from the rocks. 

An ancient castle on the plain. 

In silent grandeur stood. 
Where dwelt Lord Henry, proud and vain. 

But, not like Colin, good. 

And oft his lands he wandered through. 

Or on the mountain's side ; 
And with surprise and envy too 

The humble Colin eyed. 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 41 

" And why am I denied," said he, 
" That cheerfuhiess and joy 
Which ever and anon I see 
In this poor shepherd boy ? 

^* No wealth nor lands has he secure, 
No titled honours high ; 
And yet, though destitute and poor, 
He seems more blest than I." 

But this Lord Henry did not know. 

That pleasure ne'er is found 
Where pride and passion overflow. 

And evil deeds abound. 

CoUn, though poor, was glad and gay, 

For he was good and kind ; 
While selfish passions every day 

Disturbed Lord Henry's mind. 

Thus Colin had for his reward 

Contentment with his lot ; 
More happy than this noble lord. 

Who sought but found it not. 



42 THE BOBIN. 

THE ROBIN. 

Away, pretty Bobin, fly home to your nest, 

To make you my captive would please me the best, 

And feed you with worms and with bread : 
Your eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft, 
Your little wings flutter so pretty aloft, 

And your breast is all covered with red. 

But then, 'twould be cruel to keep you, I know, 
So stretch out your wings, little Robin, and go. 

Fly home to your young ones again ; 
Go listen once more to your mate's pretty song. 
And chirrup and twitter there all the day lonff, 

Secure him tt.e wind and the raiB. 

But when the leaves fall, and the winter winds blow, 
And the green fields are covered all over with snow, 

And the clouds in white feathers descend ; 
When the springs are all ice, and the rivulets freeze, 
And the long shining icicles drop from the trees. 

Then, Robin, remember your friend. 

With cold and with hunger half famished and weak, 
Then tap at my window again with your beak. 

Nor shall your petition be vain : 
You shall fly to my bosom and perch on my thumbs, 
Or hop round the table and pick up the crumbs, 

And need not be hungry again. 




THE child's monitor. 43 



THE CHILD'S MONITOIt. 

The wind blows down the largest tree, 
And yet the wind I cannot see. 
Playmates far off, who have been kind, 
My thought can bring before my mind ; 
The past by it is present brought, 
And yet I cannot see my thought 
The charming rose scents all the air. 
Yet I can see no perfume there. 
Blithe Robin's notes how sweet, how clear 1 
From his small bill they reach my ear. 
And whilst upon the air they float, 
I hear, yet cannot see a note. 
When I would do what is forbid. 
By aomethmg in my heart I'm chid ; 
When good, I think, then quick and pat, 
That something says, "My child, do that:" 
When I too near the stream would go, 
So pleased to see the waters flow, 
That something says, without a sound, 
* Take care, dear child, you may be drowned;' 
And for the poor whene'er I grieve, 
That something s&js, "A penny give." 

Thus something very near must be. 
Although invisible to me ; 



44 THE BOY8 AKD THE APPLE-TREK 

Whatever I do, it sees me still : 

Oh then, good Spirit, guide my will ! 



THE BOYS AND THE APPLETREK 

As William and Thomas were walking one day, 

They came by a fine orchard's side, — 
They would rather eat apples than spell, read, or 

play,— 

And Thomas to William then cried : — 

" O brother, look yonder ! what clusters hang there! 
Ill try and climb over the wall : 
I must have an apple ; I will have a pear. 
Although it should cost me a £all ! " 

Said William to Thomas, '* To steal is a sin, 

Mamma has oft told this to thee : 
I never have stole, nor will I begin. 

So the apples may hang on the tree." 

" You are a good boy, as you ever have been," 
Said Thomas; "let's walk on, my lad : 
Well call on our schoolfellow, Benjamin Green, 
Who to see us I know will be glad.'* 



THE BOTS AND THE APPLE-TREE. 45 

They came to the house, and asked at the gate, 
"Is Benjamin Green now at home?" 
But Benjamin did not allow them to wait, 
And brought them both into the room. 

And he smiled and he laughed, and capered with 

joy, 

His little companions to greet : 
" And we too are happy," said each little boy, 
" Our playfellow dear thus to meet." 

" Come, walk in our garden this morning so fine, — 
We may, for my father gives leave ; 
And more, he invites you to stay here and dine, 
And a most happy day we shall have ! " 

But when in the garden, they found 'twas the same 
They saw as they walked in the road ; 

And near the high wall when those little boys 
came. 
They started as if from a toad. 

" That large ring of iron you see on the ground. 
With terrible teeth like a saw," 
Said their friend, "the guard of our garden is 
found. 
And it keeps all intruders in awe. 



46 THE WOODEN DOLL AND THE WAX DOLL. 

" If any the warning without set at naught, 
Their legs then this man-trap must tear." 
Said William to Thomas, " So you'd have been 
If you had leaped over just there." [caught, 

Cried Thomas, in terror of what now he saw, 
" With my faults I will heartily grapple ; 
For I learn what may happen by breaking a law. 
Although but in stealing an apple." 



THE WOODEN DOLL AND THE 
WAX DOLL. 

There were two friends, a very charming pair ! 
Brunette the brown, and Blanchidine the fair ; 
And she to love Brunette did constantly incline. 
Nor less did Brunette love sweet Blanchidine. 
Brunette in dress was neat, yet always plain ; 
But Blanchidine of finery was vain. 

Now Blanchidine a new acquaintance made — 
A little girl most sumptuously arrayed 
In plumes and ribbons, gaudy to behold, 
And India frock, with spots of shining gold. 
Said Blanchidine, " A girl so richly dressed 
Should surely be by every one caressed. 
To play with me if she will condescend, 
Henceforth 'tis she alone shall be my friend." 



THE WOODEN DOLL AND THE WAX DOLL. 47 

And SO for this new friend in silks adorned, 

Her poor Brunette was slighted, left, and scorned. 
Of Blanchidine's vast stock of pretty toys, 

A wooden doll her every thought employs ; 

Its neck so white, so smooth, its cheeks so red — 

She kissed, she fondled, and she took to bed. 
Mamma now brought her home a doll of wax, 

Its hair in ringlets white, and soft as flax ; 

Its eyes could open and its eyes could shut ; 

And on it, too, with taste its clothes were put. 
" My dear wax doll 1" sweet Blanchidine would cry : 

Her doll of wood was thrown neglected by. 

One summer's day, 'twas in the month of June, 

The sun blazed out in all the heat of noon : 
"My waxen doll," she cried; "my dear, my 
charmer! 

What! are you cold] but you shall soon be 
warmer." 

She laid it in the sun — misfortune dire ! 

The wax ran down as if before the fire 1 

Each beauteous feature quickly disappeared, 

And melting, left a blank all soiled and smeared. 

Her doll disfigured she beheld amazed, 

And thus expressed her sorrow as she gazed : 
*' Is it for you my heart I have estranged 

From that I fondly loved, which has not changed ? 

Just so may change my new acquaintance fine. 

For whom I left Brunette, that friend of mine. 



48 IDLE KICHARD AXD THE GOAT. 

No more hy ontside show will I be luied ; 
Of sach capricious whims I think I'm cured . 
To plain old friends my heart shall still be trae. 
Nor change for every face because 'tis new." 
Her slighted wooden doll resumed its charms. 
And wronged Brunette she clasped within her arms. 



IDLE RICHARD AND THE GOAT. 

John Brown is a man withont houses or lands ; 
Himself he snpports by the work of his hands ; 
He brings home his wages each Saturday night — 
To his wife and his children a very good sight 

His eldest son, Richard, on errands when sent, 
To loiter and chatter is very much bent ; 
And in spite of the care his mother bestows. 
He is known by his tatters wherever he goes. 
His shoes, too, are worn, and his feet are half bare, 
And now it is time he should have a new pair. 
" Go at once to the shop," said John Brown to his son, 
" And change me this bank-note — I have only one." 
But now comes the mischief, for Richard would 
stop 
To prate with a boy at a green-grocer's shop ; 
And to whom, in his boasting, he shows his bank- 
note: 
Just then to the green-stall up marches a goat 



NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE. 49 

The boys knew full well that it was this goat's way, 
With any that passed her to gambol and play. 
The three then continued to skip and to frisk, 
Till his note on some greens Dick happened to 

whisk; 
And what was his wonder to see the rude goat 
In munching the greens eat up his bank-note I 
To his father he ran, in dismay, with the news; 
And by stopping to gossip he lost his new shoes. 



NEVER PLAY WITH FIRR 

My prayers I said, I went to bed. 

And quickly fell asleep ; 
But soon I woke, my sleep was broke, — 

I through my curtains peep. 

I heard a noise of men and boys. 

The watchman's rattle too ; 
And " Fire !" they cry, and then cried I, 
"Alas! whatshaUIdoT 

A shout so loud came from the crowd. 

Around, above, below ; 
And in the street the neighbours meet 

Who would the matter know. 

(960) 4 



60 THE TRUANT BOT& 

Now down the stairs run threes and pairs^ 

Enough their bones to break ; 
The firemen shont, the engines spout 

Their streams, the fire to slaka 

The roof and wall, the stairs and all. 

And rafters, tumble in : 
Red flames and blaze now all amaze, 

And make a dreadful din 1 

And each one screams when bricks and beams 
Come tumbling on their heads ; 

And some are smashed, and some are dashed, 
Some leap on feather-beds. 

Some bum, some choke with fire and smoke ; 

But, ah ! what was the cause ? 
My heart's dismayed — ^last night I played 

With Thomas, lighting straws ! 



THE TRUANT BOYS. 

The month was August and the morning cool, 

When Hal and Ned, 
To walk together to the neighbouring school. 

Rose early from their bed. 



THE TRUANT BOYS. 61 

When near the school, Hal said, " Why con your 
task, 

Demure and prim ? 
Ere we go in, let me one question ask, 

Ned, shall we go and swimi" 

Fearless of future punishment or blame. 

Away they hied. 
Through many a verdant field, until they came 

Unto the river's sida 

The broad stream narrowed in its onward course. 

And deep and still 
It silent ran, and yet with rapid force. 

To turn a neighbouring mill 

Under the mill an arch gaped wide, and seemed 

The jaws of death 1 
Through this the smooth deceitful waters teemed 

On dreadful wheels beneath. 

They swim the river wide, nor think nor care : 

The waters flow. 
And by the current strong they carried are 

Into the mill-stream now. 

Through the swift waters as young Ned was rolled, 

The gulf when near, 
On a kind brier by chance he laid fast hold. 

And stopped his dread career. 



52 GEORGE AKD THE CHIKKEY-SfTESP. 

But lackless Hal was by the miU-wheel torn ; — 

A warning sad! 
And the untimely death all friends now monm 

Of this poor truant lad. 



GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEYSWEEP. 

His petticoats now George cast off, 

For he was four years old ; 
His trousers were of nankeen stufi^ 

With buttons bright as gold. 
" May I," said George, "just go abroad, 

My pretty clothes to show ? 
May I, mamma 1 but speak the word.* 

The answer was, " No, no. 

" Go, run below, George, in the court, 

But go not in the street. 
Lest boys with you should make some sport. 

Or gipsies you should meet." 
Yet, though forbidden, he went out, 

That other boys might spy ; 
And proudly there he walked about. 

And thought, " How fine am I !" 

But whilst he strutted through the street^ 
With looks both vain and pert, 



THE BUTTERFLY. 63 

A sweep-boy passed, whom not to meet, 

He slipped— into the dirt 
The sooty lad, whose heart was kind, 

To help him quickly ran, 
And grasped his arm, with, " Never mind ; 

You're up, my little man." 

Sweep wiped his clothes with labour vain, 

And begged him not to cry ; 
And when he'd blackened every stain, 

Said, "Little sir, good-bye." 
Poor George, almost as dark as sweep. 

And smeared in dress and face. 
Bemoans with sobs, both loud and deep, 

His well-deserved disgraca 



THE BUTTERFLY. 

The butterfly, an idle thing, 

Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing. 

As do the bee and bird ; 
Nor does it, like the prudent ant, 
Lay up the grain for times of want, 

A wise and cautious hoard. 

My youth is but a summer's day : 
Then, like the bee and ant. Til lay 
A store of learning by ; 



64 THE redbreast's petition. 

And though from flower to flower I rove, 
My stock of wisdom 111 improve, 
Nor be a butterfly. 



% 



THE REDBREASTS PETTTIOK 

The thrush sings nobly on the tree, 
In strength of voice excelling me, 

Whilst leaves and fruits are on ; 
But think how Robin sings for you, 
When nature's beauties bid adieu, 
And leaves and fruits are gona 
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling, 
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing. 

When winter*s winds blow loud and rude, 
And birds retire in sullen mood, 

And snows make white the ground. 
My note your drooping heart may charm, 
And, sure that you'll not do me harm, 
I hop your window round. 
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling. 
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing; 

Since, friends, in you I put my trust. 
And please you too, you should be just> 
And for your music pay ! 



THB NIGHTINGALE. 55 

Or if I find a traveller dead, 

My bill with leaves his corpse shall spread, 
And sing his passing lay. 
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling. 
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing. 



THE NIGHTINGALK 

Thy plaintive notes, sweet Philomel, 
All other melodies excel ; 

Deep in the grove retired. 
Thou seem'st thyself and song to hide, 
Nor dost thou boast, or plume with pride, 

Nor wish to be admired. 

So, if endued with power and grace, 
And with that power my will keep pace, 

111 act a generous part. 
And banish ostentatious show. 
Nor let my liberal action know 

A witness but my heart 



66 THE LABK — ^WASHING AND DBESSINa 



THE LARK 

Faoh his humble grassy bed, 

See the warbling lark arise ! 
By his grateful wishes led 

Through those regions of the skies. 

Songs of thanks and praise he pours, 

Harmonizing airy space ; 
Sings and mounts, and higher soars, 

Towards the throne of heavenly grace. 

Small his gifts compared with mine, 
Poor my thanks with his compared : 

IVe a soul almost divine ; 

Angels' blessings with me shared. 

Wake, my soul, to praise aspire ; 

Reason, every sense accord ; 
Join in pure, seraphic fire. 

Love, and thank, and praise the Lord. 



WASHING AND DRESSING. 

Ah ! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 
And cry, and look sulky, and pout? 

To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 
I can't even kiss her without. 



THE PLUH-CAKE. 57 

Tou say you don't like to be washed and be drest, 

But would you not wish to be clean ? 
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 

This face is not fit to be seen. 

If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head, 

And the soap has got into your eye. 
Will the water grow warmer for all that youVe said? 

And what good will it do you to cry ? 

It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet, 

But only for kindness and care 
That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look 
neat. 

And comb out your tanglesome hair. 

I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry. 

But pay me for all with a kiss ; 
That's right — ^take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 

I thought you'd be good after thi& 



THE PLUM-CAKE. 

** O9 ! I've got a plum-cake, and a fine feast I'll make, 
So nice to have all to myself ! 
I can eat every day while the rest are at play. 
And then put it by on the shelf." 



i 



58 AKOTHBB PLUM-CAKE. 

Thus said little John, and how soon it was gone ! 

For with zeal to his cake he applied 
While fingers and thumbs for the sweetmeats and 
plums 

Were hunting and digging besida 

But, woful to tell, a misfortune befell, 

That shortly his folly revealed: 
After eating his fill, he was taken so ill 

That the cause could not now be concealed. 

As he grew worse and worse, the doctor and nurse 

To cure his disorder were sent ; 
And rightly youll think, he had physic to drink, 

Which made him sincerely repent. 

And while on the bed he rolled his hot head. 

Impatient with sickness and pain. 
He could not but take this reproof from his cake, 
'^ Do not be such a glutton again." 



(( 



ANOTHER PLUM-CAKE. 

Oh ! IVe got a plum-cake, and a feast let us make, 
Come, schoolfellows, come at my call ; 

I assure you 'tis nice, and we'll each have a slice, 
Here's more than enough for us alL" 



FOR A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL. 59 

Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a smack, 

And sharpened his knife to begin; 
'Not was there one found, upon the playground, 

So cross that he would not come in. 

With masterly strength he cut through it at length. 
And gave to each playmate a share : 

Charles, William, and James, and many more 
names. 
Partook his benevolent cara 

And when it was done and they'd finished their fun, 
To marbles or hoop they went back ; 

And each little boy felt it always a joy 
To do a good turn for good Jack. 

In his task and his book, his best pleasures he took. 

And as he thus wisely began. 
Since he's been a man grown, he has constantly 
shown 

That a good boy will make a good man. 



FOR A JSTAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL 

My sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild. 

She must not be fretful and cry ! 
Oh ! why is this passion I — ^remember, my child, 

God sees you who lives in the sky. 



60 FOR A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL. 

That dear little face, that I like so to kiss, 

How altered and sad it appears ! 
Do you think I can love you so naughty as this, 

Or kiss you all wetted with tears ? 

Remember, though God is in heaven, my love, 

He sees you within and without, 
And always looks down, from his glory above, 

To notice what you are about. 

If I am not with you, or if it be dark. 

And nobody is in the way. 
His eye is as able your doings to mark 

In the night as it is in the day. 

Then dry up your tears and look smiling again, 
And never do things that are wrong ; 

For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain 
To be naughty and crying so long. 

We'll pray, then, that God may your passion forgive, 

And teach you from evil to fly ; 
And then you'll be happy as long as you live, 

And happy whenever you die. 




HONEST OLD TSAT. 61 



HONEST OLD TRAY. 

Do not hurt the poor fellow, your honest old Tray ! 
What good will it do you to drive him away,^ 

Or tease him and force him to bite ? 
Remember how faithful he is to his charge, 
And barks at the rogues when we set him at large, 

And guards us by day and by night. 

Though you, by-and-by, will grow up to a man, 
And Tray '11 be a dog let him grow as he can. 

Remember, my good little lad, 
A dog that is honest, and faithful, and mild, 
Is not only better than is a bad child. 

But better than men that are bad. 

If you are a boy, and Tray is but a beast, 

I think it should teach you one lesson at least, 

You ought to act better than he ; 
And if without reason, or judgment, or sense. 
Tray does as we bid him, and gives no offence. 

How diligent Richard should ba 

If I do but just whistle, as often youVe seen. 
He seems to say, " Master, what is it you mean 1 
My courage and duty are tried." 



62 TO A LTfTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD A LIB. 

And see, when I throw mj stick OTer the pale. 
He fetches it back, and comes wagging his tail. 
And lays it down close to mj side: 

Then honest old Tray, let him sleep at his ease, 
While you from him learn to endeavour to please, 

And obey me with spirit and joy : 
Or else we shall find (what would grieve me to say) 
That Richard's no better than honest old Tray, 

And a brute has more sense than a boy. 




TO A LITTLE GIKL THAT HAS TOLD A LIK 

Am) has my dariing told a lie ? 
Did she forget that God was by 1 
That God who saw the things she did, 
From whom no action can be hid ; 
Did she forget that God could see 
And hear, wherever she might be 1 



He made your eyes, and can discern 
Whichever way you think to turn ; 
He made your ears, and he can hear 
When you think nobody is near : 
Li every place, by night or day. 
He watches all you do and say. 



TO A LITTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD A LIE. 63 

Oh, how I wish you would but try 
To act as shall not need a lie ; 
And when you wish a thing to do, 
That has been once forbidden you, 
Kemember that, nor ever dare 
To disobey — for God is there. 

Why should you fear the truth to tell ? 
Does falsehood ever do so well ? 
Can you be satisfied to know 
There's something wrong to hide below ? 
No ! let your fault be what it may, 
To own it is the happy way. 

So long as you your crime conceal, 
You cannot light and gladsome feel : 
Your little heart will seem opprest. 
As if a weight were on your breast ; 
And e*en your mother's eye to meet. 
Will tinge your face with shame and heat 

Yes, God has made your duty clear, 
By every blush, by every fear ; 
And conscience, like an angel kind. 
Keeps watch to bring it to your mind : 
Its friendly warnings ever heed. 
And neither tell a lie— nor need. 




64 THE TWO GARDENS. 



THE TWO GARDENS. 

When Harry and Dick had been striving to please, 
Their father (to whom it was known) 

Made two little gardens, and stocked them with trees, 
And gave one to each for his own. 

Harry thanked his papa, and with rake, hoe, and 
spade. 

Directly began his employ ; 
And soon such a neat little garden was made, 

That he panted with labour and joy. 

There was always some bed or some border to mend, 

Or something to tie or to stick ; 
And Harry rose early his garden to tend, 

While sleeping lay indolent Dick. 

The tulip, the rose, and the lily so white, 

United their beautiful bloom ; 
And often the honey-bee stooped from her flight 

To sip the delicious perfume. 

A neat row of peas in full blossom were seen, 
French beans were beginning to shoot ; 

And his gooseberries and currants, though yet they 
were green. 
Foretold for him plenty of fruit 



HT HOTHEB. 65 

But mchard loved better in bed to repose, 
And there, as he curled himself round, 

Forgot that no tulip, nor lily, nor rose, 
Nor fruit in his garden was found. 

Bank weeds and tall nettles disfigured his beds, 

Kor cabbage nor lettuce was seen ; 
The slug and the snail showed their mischievous heads, 

And ate every leaf that was green. 

Thus Bichard the Idle, who shrank from the cold. 

Beheld his trees naked and bare ; 
While Harry the Active was charmed to behold 

The fruit of his patience and care. 



MY MOTHER 

Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest ? 

My mother. 

When sleep forsook my open eye. 
Who was it sung sweet hushaby. 
And rocked me that I should not cry ? 

My mother. 
(«e) 5 



66 MY MOTHER. 

Who sat and watched my infant head 
When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed ? 

My mother. 

When pain and sickness made me cry, 
Who gazed upon my heavy eye, 
And wept for fear that I should die ? 

My mother. 

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
And taught me pretty how to play, 
And minded all I had to say ? 

My mother. 

Who ran to help me when I fell. 
And would some pretty story tell, 
Or kiss the place to make it well ? 

My mother. 

Who taught my infant lips to pray, 
And love God's holy book and day. 
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way ? 

My mother. 

And can I ever cease to be 
Affectionate and kind to thee, 
Who was so very kind to me, 

My mother ? 



THF PALACE AND THE COTTAQE. 67 

Ah, no ! the thought I cannot bear; 
And if God please my life to spare, 
I hope I shall reward thy care, 

My mother. 

When thou art feeble, old, and gray. 
My healthy arm shall be thy stay. 
And I will soothe thy pains away, 

My mother. 

And when I see thee hang thy head. 
Twill be my turn to watch thy bed. 
And tears of sweet affection shed, 

My mother. 

For God, who lives above the skies, 
Would look with vengeance in his eyes, 
If I should ever dare despise 

My mother. 



THE PALACE AND THE COTTAGE. 

High on a mountain's haughty steep 
Lord Hubert's palace stood ; 

Before it rolled a river deep. 
Behind it waved a wood. 




68 THE PALACE AND THE COTTAGE. 

Low in an unfrequented vale 

A peasant built his cell ; 
Sweet flowers perfumed the cooling gale 

And graced his garden welL 

Loud riot through Lord Hubert's hall 

Li noisy clamour ran ; 
He scarcely closed his eyes at all 

Till breaking day began. 

Li scenes of quiet and repose 
Young William's life was spent : 

With morning's early beam he rose, 
And forth to labour went 

On sauces rich and viands fine 

Lord Hubert daily fed, 
His goblet filled with sparkling wine, 

His board with dainties spread. 

Warm from the sickle or the plough, 

His heart as light as air, 
His garden-ground and dappled cow 

Supplied young William's fare. 

On beds of down, beset with gold, 
With satin curtains drawn. 

His feverish limbs Lord Hubert rolled 
From midnight's gloom to mom. 



THE PALACE AND THE COTTAGE. 69 

Stretched on a hard and flocky bed, 

The cheerful rustic lay ; 
And sweetest slumbers lulled his head 

From eve to breaking day. 

• 

Fever and gout, and aches and pains, 

Destroyed Lord Hubert's rest ; 
Disorder burned in all his veins, 

And sickened in his breast. 

A stranger to the ills of wealth, 

Behind his rugged plough. 
The cheek of William glowed with health, 

And cheerful was his brow. 

No gentle friend to soothe his pain 

Sat near Lord Hubert's bed ; 
His friends and sen^^ants, light and vain, 

From scenes of sorrow fled. 

But William, when, with many a year, 

His dying day came on, 
Had wife and child, with bosom dear, 

To lean and rest upon. 

The solemn hearse, the waving plume, 

A train of mourners grim. 
Carried Lord Hubert to the tomb ; 

But no one grieved for him : 



70 BALL. 

No weeping eye, no gentle breast, 

Lamented his decay, 
Nor round his costly coffin prest 

To gaze upon his clay. 

But when within the narrow bed 

Old William came to lie. 
When clammy sweats had chilled his head 

And death had glazed his eye. 

Sweet tears, by fond affection dropped. 

From many an eyelid fell ; 
And many a lip, by anguish stopped, 

Half spoke the sad farewell 

No marble pile or costly tomb 
Is seen where William sleeps ; 

But there wild thyme and cowslips bloom, 
And there affection weeps. 



BALL. 



u 



\ 



My good little fellow, don't throw your ball there, 

You'll break neighbour's windows, I know ; 
On the end of the house there is room and to spare. 
Go round, you can have a delightful game there. 
Without fearing for where you may throw." 



BALL. 71 

Hany thought he might safely continue his play 

With a little more care than before ; 
So, heedless of all that his father could say, 
As soon as he saw he was out of the way, 
Besolved to have fifty throws more. 

Already as far as to forty he rose, 

And no mischief had happened at all ; 
One more, and one more, he successfully throws. 
But when, as he thought, just arrived at the close. 
In popped his unfortunate ball. 

" I'm sure that I thought, and I did not intend," 
Poor Harry was going to say ; 
But soon came the glazier the window to mend. 
And both the bright shillings he wanted to spend 
He had for his folly to pay. 

When little folks think they know better than great, 

And what is forbidden them do. 
We must always expect to see, sooner or late. 
That such wise little fools have a similar fate. 

And that one of the fifty goes througL 



72 THE FOX AND THE CROW. 



THE FOX AND THE CROW. 

A FABLE. 

The fox and the crow, 

In prose, I well know, 
Many good little girls can rehearse : 

Perhaps it will tell 

Pretty nearly as well, 
If we try the same fable in verse. 

In a dairy a crow 

Having ventured to go, 
Some food for her young ones to seek. 

Flew up in the trees. 

With a fine piece of cheese, 
Which she joyfully held in her beak. 

A fox, who lived by. 

To the tree saw her fly. 
And to share in the prize made a vow ; 

For having just dined. 

He for cheese felt inclined. 
So he went and sat under the bougL 

She was cunning, he knew, 
But so was he too. 
And with flattery adapted his plan ; 



THE POX AND THE CROW. 73 

For he knew if she'd speak, 
It must fall irom. her beak, 
So, bowing politely, began. 

" Tis a very fine day " 
(Not a word did she say) : 
" The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south ; 
A fine harvest for peas : " 
He then looked at the cheese 
But the crow did not open her mouth. 

Sly Reynard, not tired, 
Her plumage admired — 
" How charming ! how brilliant its hue ! 
The voice must be fine. 
Of a bird so divine. 
Ah, let me just hear it, pray do. 

" Believe me, I long 

To hear a sweet song." 
The silly crow foolishly tries : 

She scarce gave one squall. 

When the cheese she let fall. 
And the fox ran away with the priza 

MORAL. 

Ye innocent fair. 
Of coxcombs beware. 
To flattery never give ear ; 



74 BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 

Try well each pretence, 
And keep to plain sense, 
And then you have little to fear. 



BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 

What millions of beautiful things there must be 
In this mighty world ! — ^who could reckon them all? 

The tossing, the foaming, the wide flowing sea. 
And thousands of rivers that into it faU. 

Oh there are the mountains, half-covered with snow, 
"With tall and dark trees, like a girdle of green. 

And waters that wind in the valleys below, 
Or roar in the caverns too deep to be seen. 

Vast caves in the earth, full of wonderful things. 
The bones of strange animals, jewels, and spars ; 

Or, far up in Iceland, the hot boiling springs. 
Like fountains of feathers or showers of stars. 

Here spread the sweet meadows wi^ thousands of 
flowers ; 

Far away are old woods, that for ages remain ; 
Wild elephants sleep in the shade of their bowers, 

Or troops of young antelopes traverse the plain. 




GREAT THINGS. 75 

Oh yes, they are glorious all to behold, 

And pleasant to read of, and curious to know ; 

And something of God and his wisdom we're told, 
Whatever we look at, wherever we go. 



GREAT THINGS. 

Come tell of the planets that roll round the sky. 
And tell of the wisdom that guides them on high ; 
Come tell of their magnitudes, motions, and phases, 
And which are the swiftest in running their races ; 
And tell of the moons each in regular course. 
And speak of their splendour, their distance, and force. 

Hear then, child of Earth, this wonderful story 
Of Grod's works, and how they show forth his glory ; 
For the stars and the planets speak much of his might. 
And, if we will listen, sing anthems by night. 
And first, of the Sun, flaming centre of all. 
Many thousand times bigger than this little ball : 
He turns on his axis in twenty-five days. 
And sheds through the system a deluge of rays. 
Now mark his dimensions, in round numbers given. 
The Earth's disc as one— his, a hundred and eleven. 
Yet solid and dense is his substance, like ours, 
Although from his vesture a flood of light pours. 



76 GREAT THINGS. 

His atmosphere shoots forth a torrent of flame, 

An ocean still burning, yet ever the same ! 

Around him revolve— and perhaps there are more — 

Of planets and satellites, say fifty-four. 

To him they are globules, and lost in his glare : 

He's a sultan, and they are the pearls in his hair. 

First Mercury travels, so near the Sun's beam 

As would turn our Earth's metals and mountains to 

steam; 
Yet he well likes his orbit, and round it he plays, 
A few hours deducted, in eighty-eight days. 
Then Venus, bright lamp of the evening and mom ! 
Lengthens twilight on Earth by her dazzling hbm. 
How lucid her substance ! how clear are her skies I 
She sparkles a diamond as onward she hies ! 
The third place is held by this ocean-girt Earth, 
The cloud-covered, wind-shaken place of our birth : 
With its valleys of verdure, its corn-fields, and 

downs, 
rts cities of uproar, its hamlets and towns, 
Its volcanoes flinging forth fiery flakes, 
Itl mow-crested mountains and glassy smooth lakes, 
our abode, spins about on its poles ; 
would be dizzy to see how it rolls. 

too, her circuit keeps constant with ours, 
wing our ocean exhibits her powers. 
liW than Earth, and of murky red face, 
Ivw farther off, and holds the fourth placa 




GREAT THINGS. 77 

Like Earth, he has atmosphere, land, too, and seas, 
And there's snow at his poles when the wintry winds 
All near the ecliptic, and hard to be traced, [freeze. 
Twenty-six little planets we then find are placed : 
Some large one, it may be, in ages gone by. 
May have burst into fragments that roll through the 

sky. 
Far remote from the Sun, and yet greater than all. 
Moves Jupiter vast, with his cloud-banded balL 
Eighty-seven thousand miles he measures across. 
And he whirls on his poles with incredible force ; 
For in less than ten hours he sees night and day. 
The stars of his sky how they hurry away ! 
Yet his orbit employs him a nearly twelve years, 
And satellites four hold the course that he steers. 
Next Saturn, more distant, revolves with his ring — 
Or crown, shall we call it, and he a grave king ; 
And beside this broad belt of silvery light, 
Eight moons with pale lustre illumine his night. 
Thirty years — ^little less — of our time are expended. 
Before a course round his wide orbit is ended. 
Uranus comes next, and 'twas fancied that he 
Was the last, with his moons, — perhaps six, perhaps 

three, — 
For his orbit employs him, so vast is its span. 
All the years that are granted, at longest, to man. 
But since — oh, the wonders that science has done ! — 
We have f oimd a new planet, so far from the Sun 



78 DEEP THINGS. 

That but for our glasses and long calculation, 
We surely should not have discovered his station. 
His name we call Neptune, and distant so far, 
The Sun can appear little more than a star. 
But what shall we say of the comet that shows 
Its ominous tail that with pallid light glows 9 
Whisp of vapour ! that stretches from orbit to orbit, 
And whirls round the Sun, till the Sun shall absorb it. 
But solid or cloudy, these comets they move all 
In orbits elliptic, or very long ovaL 
And millions on millions of these errant masses 
Flit about in the sky, though unseen by our glasses. 
Such then is the system in which we revolve, 
But who to pass onward through space shall resolve] 
Or what wing of fancy can soar to the height 
Where stars keep their stations — a phalanx of light? 
Nor reason nor fancy that field can explore ; 
We pause in mute wonder, and God we adore. 




DEEP THINGS. 

Come, think of the wonderful things there must be 
Concealed in the caverns and cells of the sea : 
For there must be jewels and diamonds bright. 
Lost ages ago, hidden out of our sight; 
And ships, too, entire that have foundered in storms, 
Now bristle the bottom with skeleton forms ; 



DEEP THINGS. 79 

Deep tides murmur through them, and weeds as they 

passed 
Were caught and hang clotted in wreaths on the mast. 

And then the rich cargoes — ^wealth not to be told, 

The silks and the spices, the silver and gold — 

And guns that dealt death at the warrior's command, 

Are silently tombing themselves in the sand. 

But unburied whiten the bones of the crew ; 

Ah ! would that the widow and orphan but knew 

The place where their dirge by deep willows is 

sighed. 
The place where unheeded, unholpen they died. 

There, millions on millions of glittering shells. 

The nautilus there, with its pearl-coated cells. 

And the scale-covered monsters that sleep or that 

roam. 
The lords without rival of that boundless home. 

The microscope mason his toil there pursues, 
Coral insect ! unseen are his beautiful hues ; 
Yet in process of time, though so puny and frail. 
O'er the might of the ocean his structures prevail : 
On the surface at last a flat islet is spied. 
And shingle and sand are heaped up by the tide ; 
Seeds brought by the breezes take root ; and erewhile 
Man makes him a home on the insect-built pilel 



80 JAMES AND THE SHOULDER OF MUTTON. 

The deep then, — what is it 1 A wonderful hoard, 
Where all precious things are in multitudes stored ; 
The workshop of nature, where islands are made, 
And, in silence, foundations of continents laid ! 



JAMES AND THE SHOULDER OF 

MUTTON. 

Young Jem at noon returned from school 

As hungry as could be, 
He cried to Sue, the servant-maid, 
" My dinner give to ma" 

Said Sue, " It is not yet come home ; 
Besides, it is not late." 
" No matter that," cries little Jem, 
" I do not like to wait." 

Quick to the baker's Jemmy went. 
And asked, " Is dinner done 1 " 
" It is," replied the baker's man. 
" Then home I'll with it run." 

" Nay, sir," replied he prudently, 
" I tell you 'tis too hot, 
And much too heavy 'tis for you." 
" I tell you it is not. 



JAMES AND THE SHOULDER OF MUTTON. 81 

'' Papa, mamma, are both gone out, 
And I for dinner long ; 
So give it me, it is all mine, 
And, baker, hold your tongue. 

" A shoulder *tis of mutton nice I 
And batter-pudding too : 
I'm glad of that ; it is so good ; — 
How clever is our Sue ! " 

Now near the door young Jem was come, 

He round the comer turned. 
But oh, sad fate ! unlucky chance ! 

The dish his fingers burned. 

Now in the kennel down fell dish, 

And down fell all the meat ; 
Swift went the pudding in the stream, 

And sailed along the street 

The people laughed, and rude boys grinned, 

At mutton's hapless fall ; 
But though ashamed, young Jemmy cried, 
" Better lose jpart than all." 

The shoulder by the knuckle seized, 
BLis hands both grasped it fast, 

And deaf to all their gibes and cries. 
He gained his home at last. 
(<m 6 



82 FALSE ALARM& 

" Impatience is a fault," cries Jem, 
" The baker told me true ; 
In future I will patient be, 
And mind what says our Sua" 



FALSE ALARMS. 

One day little Mary most loudly did call, 
" Mamma ! O mamma, pray come here; 
A fall I have had, oh ! a very sad falL" 
Mamma ran in haste and in fear. 

Then Mary jumped up, and she laughed in great glee, 
And cried, " Why, how fast you can run ! 

No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me. 
My screaming was only in fun." 

Her mother was busy at work the next day, 
She heard from without a loud cry : 
" The great dog has got me ! oh, help me! oh, pray! 
He tears me, he bites me, I die ! " 

Mamma, all in terror, quick to the court flew, 

And there little Mary she found ; 
Who, laughing, said, " Madam, pray how do you 
dol" 

And courtesied quite down to the ground. 



Sophia's fool's-cap. 83 

That night little Mary was some time in bed, 
When cries and loud shrieking were heard : 
" I'm on fire, O mamma, oh, come up, or I'm dead!" 
Mamma she believed not a word. 

» 

'* Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she called out iram 
below, 
" How often have I been deceived ! 
You are telling a story, you very well know : 
Go to sleep, for you can't be believed." 

Yet still the child screamed : now the house filled 
with smoka 

That fire is above, Jane declares. 
Alas ! Mary's words they soon found were no joke, 

When every one hastened upstairs. 

All burned and all seamed is her once pretty face, 
And terribly marked are her arms, 

Her features all scarred, leave a lasting disgrace, 
For giving mamma false alarms. 



SOPHIA'S FOOL'S-CAP. 

Sophia was a little child, 
Obliging, good, and very mild; 
Yet lest of dress she should be vainj 
Mamma still dressed her well, but plain. 



84 THE SNAIL. 

Her parents, sensible and kind, 
Wished only to adorn her mind ; 
No other dress, when good, had she, 
But useful, neat simplicity. 
Though seldom, yet when she was rude, 
Or ever in a naughty mood. 
Her punishment was this disgrace, 
A large fine cap, adorned with lace, 
With feathers and with ribbons too. 
The work was neat, the fashion new, 
Yet, as a fool's-cap was its name. 
She dreaded much to wear the same. 

A lady, fashionably gay. 
Did to mamma a visit pay : 
Sophia stared, then whispering said, 
" Why, dear mamma, look at her head ! 
To be so tall and wicked too, 
The strangest thing I ever knew. 
What naughty tricks, pray, has she done. 
That they have put that f ooFs-cap on 1 " 



THE SNAIL. 

The snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall, 
He seems scarce to make any progress at all. 
Almost where you leave him you find him ; 



THE HOLIDAT& 85 

His long shining body he stretches out well, 
And drags along with him his round hollow shell, 
And leaves a bright pathway behind him. 

" Look, father," said John, " at the lazy old snail. 
He's almost an hour crawling over the pale 

Enough all one's patience to worry ; 
Now, if I were he, I would gallop away. 
Half over the world— twenty miles in a day. 

And turn business off in a hurry." 

" Why, John," said his father, " that's all very well; 
For though you can never inhabit a shell. 

But e'en must remain a young master, 
Yet these thoughts of yours may something avail; 
Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the 

And do your oion work rather faster." [snail, 



THE HOLIDAYS. 



" Ah ! don't you remember, 'tis almost December, 
And eoon will the holidays come ; 
Oh, 'twill be so funny, IVe plenty of money, 
I'll buy me a sword and a drum." 

Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry. 
Impatient from school to depart ; 



86 THE HOLIDAT& 

But we shaQ disooyer, this holidaj lover 
Knew little what was in his heart 

For when on retaining he gave np his learning. 
Away from his sums and his books, 

Though playthings surrounded and sweetmeats 
abounded, 
Chagrin still appeared in his looks. 

Though first they delighted, his toys were now 
And thrown away out of his sight ; [slighted. 

He spent every morning in stretching and yawning, 
Yet went to bed weary at night 

He had not that treasure which really makes 
(A secret discovered by few) : [pleasure, 

You'll take it for granted, more playthings he 
Oh no— it was something to do. [wanted ; 

We must have employment to give us enjoyment 
And pass the time cheerfully away ; 

And study and reading give pleasure exceeding 
The pleasures of toys and of play. 

To school now returning — to study and learning 

With eagerness Harry applied ; 
He felt no aversion to books or exertion, 

Nor yet for the holidays sighed. 



OLD SARAH. 87 

OLD SARAH. 

"With haggard eye and wrinkled face, 
Old Sarah goes with tottering pace, 

Prom door to door to beg ; 
With gipsy hat and tattered gown, 
And petticoat of rusty brown, 

And many-coloured leg. 

No blazing fire, no cheerful home— 
She goes forlorn about to roam, 

While winds and tempests blow; 
And every traveller passing by, 
She follows with a doleful cry 

Of poverty and woa 

But see ! her arm no basket bears, 
With laces gay, and wooden wares, 

And garters blue and red ; 
To stroll about and drink her gin, 
She loves far better than to spin, 

Or work to earn her bread. 

Old Sarah everybody knows. 
Nor is she pitied as she goes — 

A melancholy sight; 
For people do not like to give 
Relief to those who idle live. 

And work not when they might 



88 OLD SUSAN. 



OLD SUSAN. 



Old Susan, in a cottage small, 
Though low the roof, and mud the wall, 

And goods a scanty store. 
Enjoys within her peaceful shed 
Her wholesome crust of barley-bread ; 

Nor does she covet more. 

Though aches and weakness she must feel, 
She daily plies her spinning-wheel 

Within her cottage gate. 
And thus her industry and care 
Suffice to find her homely fare ; 

Nor envies she the great. 

A decent gown she always wears. 
Though many an ancient patch it bears. 

And many a one that's new ; 
No dirt is seen within her door. 
Clean sand she sprinkles on the floor, 

As tidy people do. 

Old Susan everybody knew, 
And every one respected too 

Her industry and care; 
And when her little stock was low, 
Her neighbours gladly would bestow 

Whatever they could spara 



THE GLEANER. 89 



THE GLEANER. 

Before the bright sun rises over the hill, 
In the corn-field poor Mary is seen, 

Impatient her little blue apron to fill 

With the few scattered ears she can glean. 

She never leaves off, nor runs out of her place, 

To play, or to idle and chat. 
Except now and then just to wipe her hot face. 

And to fan herself with her broad hat 

" Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun. 
How tired and hot you must be ; 
Why don't you leave off as the others have done, 
And sit with them under the tree 1 " 

" Oh no, for my mother lies ill in her bed, 
Too feeble to spin or to knit ; 
And my poor little brothers are crying for bread. 
And we hardly can give them a bit. 

" Then could I be merry, or idle and play. 
While they are so hungry and ill 1 
Oh no, I would rather work hard all the day 
My little blue apron to fill" 



90 850W. 



SNOW. 

Oh come to the window, dear brother, and see 
What a change has been made in the night ! 

The snow has quite covered the broad cedar tree, 
And the bushes are sprinkled with whita 

The spring in the grove is beginning to freeze, 

The fish-pond is frozen all o'er ; 
Long icicles hang in bright rows from the trees. 

And drop in odd shapes from the door. 

The old mossy thatch and the meadow so green 

Are hid with a mantle of white ; 
The snowdrop and crocus no longer are seen, 

The thick snow has covered them quite. 

And see the poor birds how they fly to and fro, 
As they look for their breakfast again ; . 

But the food that they seek for is hid in the snow, 
And they hop about for it in vain. 

Then open the window, 1*11 throw them some bread, 

IVe some of my breakfast to spare ; 
I wish they would come to my hand to be fed. 

But they're all flown away, I declare. 



THE PIO& 91 

Nay, now, pretty birds, don't be frightened, I pray, 

You sball not be hurt, I'll engage ; 
I'm not come to catch you, and force you away, 

Or fasten you up in a cage. 

I wish you could know there's no cause for alarm. 

From me you have nothing to fear ; 
Why, my little fingers should do you no harm. 

Although you came ever so near. 



THE PIGS. 

" Do look at those pigs as they lie in the straw," 

Willy said to his father one day ; 
" They keep eating longer than ever I saw. 

Oh, what greedy gluttons are they ! " 

" I see they are feasting," his father replied. 
*^ They eat a great deal, I allow ; 
But let us remember, before we deride, 
'Tis the nature, my dear, of a sow. 

'" But were a great boy such as you, my dear Will, 
Like them to be eating all day, 
Or be taking nice things till he made himself ill, 
What a glutton, indeed, we might say 1 



92 FIXKRY. 

'* If phim-<aike and sugar he ocmstantly picks, 
And sweetmeats, and comfits, and figs. 
We should tell him to leave off his own greedy tricks, 
Before he finds &iilt with the pigs." 



FINERY. 



Ix an el^ant frock, trimmed with beautiful lace. 
And hair nicely curled hanging over her face. 
Young Fanny went out to the house of a friend 
With a large little party the evening to spend. 

" Ah ! how they will all be delighted, I guess. 
And stare with surprise at my handsome new dress ! " 
Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat. 
Impatient the happy young party to meet. 

But, alas ! they were all too intent on their play 
To observe the fine clothes of this lady so gay, 
And thus all her trouble quite lost its design ; 
For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine. 

'Twas Lucy, though only in simple white clad, 
Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels she had, 
Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them more 
Than Fanny and all the fine garments she wore. 



CRAZY ROBERT. 93 

Tis better to have a sweet smile on one's face, 
Than to wear a fine frock with an elegant lace; 
For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main, 
If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain. 



CRAZY ROBERT. 

Poor Robert is crazy ; his hair is turned gray, 
His beard has grown long and hangs down to his 
breast; 

Misfortune has taken his reason away, 

His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest 

Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes, 
To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support ; 

But see, through the village, wherever he goes. 
The cruel boys follow and turn him to sport 

Tis grievous to see how the pitiless mob 

Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint, 

And try to provoke him, and call him " Old Bob," 
And hunt him about till he's ready to faint 

But ah ! wicked children, I fear they forget 
That God does their cruel diversion behold ; 

And that in his book dreadful curses are writ 

For those who shall mock at the poor and the old. 



M 



7iE3fic JL "iiif irxB^ "ai^ -unanrsamsB inD lie ; 
&n GrBL ^dL iisF finssr s^az3«d}r mixir 

*Qi::ainK icu^sbE ladinasL tou> yanwrartf Abb. 



Wa^xa. QoiiK' iisR' snfi pk^' mliiii meimder tifae tree! 
Mt Hisses 'kokV^ jfi& tm- ^imie : — 

AiMJ pkj -«rii^ 3zie -visile i^Ky aa« gODe.* 

Ob so, Iiizie ladhr. I cui\ cone xwifipdi, 

Fre 2» dme to idl? m^vvr ; 
Fre got aH 1ST dear Huik diildrai to feed, 
're DiDC lad m mcxsd today.' 



«< 



Pretty bee, do not liiizz in that marigiM flower, 
Bttt oome here and pla j with me, do ; 

The i^panrow won't oome and stay with me an hour, 
But flay, pretty bee, will not yoa ! ' 

no, little lady, for do not yon see, 

must work who would prosper and thrive % 
play, they will call me a sad idle bee, 
perhaps tarn me oat of the hiva" 




THE FIOHTINQ BIRDS. 95 

'' Stop, stop, little ant, do not run off so fast, 
Wait with me a little and play ; 
I hope I shall find a companion at last. 
You are not so busy as they." 

" Oh no, little lady, I can't stay with you. 
We are not made to play, but to labour ; 
I always have something or other to do, 
If not for myself, for a neighbour." 

" What, then ! they all have some employment but me, 
Whilst I loiter here like a dunce ; 
Oh then, like the sparrow, the ant, and the bee, 
I'll go to my lesson at once." 



THE FIGHTING BIRDS. 

Two little birds, in search of food. 

Flew o'er the fields and skimmed the flood. 

At last a worm they spy ; 
But who should take the prize they strove. 
Their quarrel sounded through the grove. 

In notes both shrill and higL 

Just then a hawk, whose piercing sight 
Had marked his prey and watched their fight. 
With certain aim' descended, 



96 CREATION. 

And pouncing on their furious strife, 
He stopped the discord with their life, 
And so the war was ended. 

Thus when at variance brothers Kve, 
And frequent words of anger give, 

With spite their bosoms rending. 
Ere long with some, perchance, they meet. 
Who take advantage of their heat. 

Their course in sorrow ending. 



CREATION. 



Come, child, look upward to the sky. 
The sun and moon behold ; 

The expanse of stars that sparkle high, 
Like specks of living gold. 

Come, child, and now behold the earth 

In varied beauty stand ; 
The product view of six days' birth — 

How wondrous and how grand ! 

The fields, the meadows, and the plain. 

The little laughing hills. 
The waters too, the mighty main. 

The rivers and the rills. 



THE MOUNTAIN& 97 

(Tome, then, behold them all, and say — 

How came these things to be, 
That stand in view, whichever way 

I turn myself to see ? 

Twas God who made the earth and sea, 

To whom the angels bow ; 
That God who made both thee and me. 

The God who sees us now. 



THE MOUNTAINS. 

The miner digs the mountain's side, 

And bores his way through rock and hill, 

To search for diamonds where they hide 
And lie in darkness, lone and still, 

like sparks of sunlight cased in stone, 

For many a thousand years unknown. 

Whence came this beautiful display 
Of gems that gloomy caverns stud ? 

The ruby, with its crimson ray, 

like drops congealed of mountain blood 1 

The emerald, bright and green as spring, 

Or evening light, or wild bird's Wing ? 

How wide and large the splendid store ! 
The amethyst of violet blue, 

(806) 7 



98 



The flMiStimg tmppbiie, hJMimgwan 

Than simaecm itsikliest kae, 
ABd »re T«ietT of gems. 
Worn but in Tfjyal djadema 

Hie liver nms tfarough smds of gold; 

Pmne Teins of sQver thraid the mine ; 
In eadi His bounteoos hand beh<dd. 

Who bade their hidden spl^idoiiis shine 
He stcmes them in a thousand cares, 
De^ in Ume hills or roaring waves. 



TBDE TEMPEST. 

Hark ! 'tis the tempest's hollow sound, 
The bursting thunder and the rain. 

While dense and heavy doads, unbound. 
In torrents fall upon the plain. 

See, too, the lightning's vivid flash 
In quick succession fire the sky : 

All form a universal crash 
Of elements at enmity. 

The soli4 earth, as if with fear, 
Trembles beneath the mighty war ; 

The waters too in mountains rear, 
Loosed from the yoke of nature's law. 



THE TEMPEST. 99 

Behold the bellowing herds the heath 
Forsake with haste, for shelter fled ; 

While shepherds fly, with panting breath, 
In equal speed and greater dread. 

And see yon ancient massive oak, 

The forest's pride for ages stood. 
Its sturdy stem in shivers broke, 

Its head driven downward in the flood. 

Tossed by the waves the wretched bark. 

Alternate see it sink and rise ; 
Now fixed on rocks, a shattered mark 

For furious winds and billows, liea 

In Tain the drowning saUors cry; 

Their shriek is lost while thunders roar ! 
In vain their moans, no help is nigh, 

Nor ship, nor hospitable shore. 

And does this tempest rage in vain ? 

And does no Power, with potent arm, 
Its fury sufler or restrain, 

From injuring hold, or guide the harm 1 

Ah yes ! a Power indeed presides. 
Yes, there's a potent Being reigns ; 

Above the storm the Almighty rides. 
And every flash 'tis he ordains. 



100 msip-Tors. 



To leam his wiadu m mod Ids care ; 
TfaelK^ unlooBed from oat Ids Inzid, 
'Prodanns in thunder — God is ^kxcl 




TUESIPTOPSL 

Whux jet the white frost spftfkks orer the ground, 
And dajiight just peeps from the misty bhie sky, 

In jonder green fidds with m j basket Fm found : 
Gomey ba J m j sweet tiinLqp4Qpfi — tmnq^-ti^ buy. 

Sadly cold are my fingers^ all drendied with the dew, 
For the son has scarce risen the meadows to diy ; 

And my feet hare got wet wiUi a hole in my shoe : 
Gome haste, then, and buy my sweet tiini^[>4ops, 
bi^. 

While yoa are asleep, with your bed-cmtains drawn. 
On pillows of down, in your chambers so hi^ 

I trip with the first rosy beam <^ the mom. 

To coll the green tops : come, my turnip-tops buy. 

Hien with the few halfpence or pence I can earn, 
A loaf for my poor mammy's breakfast 111 buy ; 

And to-morrow again little Ann shall return. 
With turnip-tops, green and fresh gathered, to ay. 



THE VULGAR LITTLE LADT. 101 



THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 

« But, mamma, now," said Charlotte, '' pray don't 
you believe 
That I'm better than Jenny, my nurse ? 
Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve; 
Her clothes are a thousand times worse. 

*' I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do, 
And the country folks stare at me so ; 
And nobody dares to control me but you^ 
Because Tm a lady, you know. 

'* Then servants are vulgar, and I am genteel ; 
So, really, 'tis out of the way 
To think that I should not be better a deal 
Than maids, and such people as they." 

" Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied, 
" Belongs to no station or place ; 
And nothing's so vidgar as folly and pride. 
Though dressed in red slippers and lace. 

" Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess 
Should teach them the poor to despise ; 
For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress, 
That the truest gentility lies." 




102 MEDDLESOME MATTT. 



MEDDLESOME MATTY. 

One agly trick has often spoiled 

The sweetest and the best : 
Matilda, though a pleasant child, 

One ugly trick possessed, 
Which, like a cloud before the skies, 
Hid all her better qualities. 

Sometimes she'd lift the teapot lid. 

To peep at what was in it ; 
Or tilt the kettle, if you did 

But turn your back a minuta 
In vain you told her not to touch, 
Her trick of meddling grew so much. 

Her grandmamma went out one day. 

And by mistake she laid 
Her spectacles and snuff-box gay 

Too near the little maid. 
" Ah I well," thought she, « Til try them on. 
As soon as grandmamma is gone.'' 

Forthwith she placed upon her nose 

The glasses large and wide ; 
And looking round, as I suppose, 

The snuff-box too she spied. 
" Oh I what a pretty box is that ; 
I'll open it," said little Matt 



MEDDLESOME MATTT. 103 

^' I know that grandmamma would say, 
* Don't meddle with it, dear ; * 
But then, she's far enough away. 

And no one else is near : 
Besides, what can there be amiss 
In opening such a box as this ? " 

So thumb and fbiger went to work 

To move the stubborn lid, 
And presently a mighty jerk 

The mighty mischief did ; 
For all at once, ah ! woful case. 
The snuff came puffing in her face. 

Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth beside 

A dismal sight presented ; 
In vain, as bitterly she cried, 

Her folly she repented. 
In vain she ran about for ease ; 
She could do nothing now but sneeze. 

She dashed the spectacles away, 

To wipe her tingling eyes. 
And as in twenty bits they lay. 

Her grandmamma she spies. 
" Heyday ! and what's the matter now 1 " 
Says grandmamma, with lifted brow. 



104 THE LAST DYING SPEECH OF POOR PU8& 

Matilda, smarting with the pain, 
And tingling still, and sore, 

Made many a promise to refrain 
From meddling evermore; 

And 'tis a fact, as I have heard. 

She ever since has kept her word. 



THE LAST DYING SPEECH AND CON- 
FESSION OF POOR PUSS. 

Kind masters and misses, whoever you be. 
Do stop for a moment and pity poor me, 
While here on my death-bed I try to relate 
My many misfortunes and miseries great. 

My dear mother Tabby Fve often heard say. 
That I have been a very fine cat in my day ; 
But the sorrows in which my whole life has been 

passed 
Have spoiled all my beauty, and killed me at last. 

Poor thoughtless young thing I if I recollect right, 
I was kittened in March, on a clear frosty night ; 
And before I could see, or was half a week old, 
I nearly had perished, the bam was so cold. 

But this chilly spring I got pretty well over, 

And moused in the hay-loft, or played in the clover, 



THE LAST DYING SPEECH OF POOR PUSS. 105 

Or till I was weary, which seldom oocurred, 
Ean after my tail, which I took for a bird. 

But, ah ! my poor tail, and my pretiy sleek ears ! 
The farmer's boy cut them all off with his shears : 
How little I thought, when I licked them so dean, 
I should be such a figure, not fit to be seen ! 

Some time after this, when the places were healed, 
As I lay in the sun, sound asleep in the field, 
Miss Fanny crept slyly, and griping me fast. 
Declared she had caught the sweet creature at last 

Ah me ! how I struggled my freedom to gain. 
But, aJas ! all my kicking and struggles were vain. 
For she held me so tight in her pinafore tied,. 
That before she got home I had like to have died. 

From this dreadful morning my sorrows arose ! 
Wherever I went I was followed with blows : 
Some kicked me for nothing while quietly sleeping. 
Or flogged me for daring the pantry to peep in. 

And then the great dog ! I shall never forget him ; 
How many a time my young master would set him. 
And while I stood terrified, all of a quake. 
Cry, " Hey, cat ! " and, " Seize her, boy 1 give her a 
shake!" 




106 THE LAST DTDTO SPEBCH OF POOS FUB& 

Sometiines, when so hnngiy I oould not forbear 
Jxust taking a scrap that I thought they oonld spare^ 
Oh ! what have I suffered with beating and banging, 
Or starved for a fortnight, or threatened with hangings 

Bat kicking, and beating, and starving, and that, 

IhaveW;withthe^iritbe^iora^ 

There was but one thing which I oould not sustain, 

So great was my sorrow, so hopeless my pain : — 

One morning, laid safe in a warm little bed. 
That down in the stable I'd carefully spread, 
Three sweet little kittens as ever you saw, 
I hid, as I thought, in some trusses of straw. 

I was never so happy, I think, nor so proud, 
I mewed to my kittens, and purred out aloud, 
And thought with delight of the merry carousing 
We'd have when I first took them with me a-mousing. 

But how shall I tell you the sorrowful ditty 1 
I'm sure it would melt even Growler to pity ; 
For the very next morning my darlings I found 
L3ring dead by the horse-pond, all mangled and 
drowned. 

Poor darlings, I dragged them along to the stable, 
And did all to warm them a mother was able ; 



THE LAST DYING SPEECH OP POOR PUSS. 107 

But, alas ! all my licking and mewing were vain, 
And I thought I should never be happy again. 

However, time gave me a little relief, 
And mousing diverted the thoughts of my grief ; 
And at last I began to be gay and content, 
TiU one dreadful night, I sincerely repent 

Miss Fanny was fond of a little canary. 

That tempted me more than mouse, pantry, or dairy; 

So, not having eaten a morsel all day, 

I flew to the bird-cage, and tore it away. 

Now tell me, my friends, was the like ever heard. 
That a cat should be killed for just catching a bird ! 
And I am sure not the slightest suspicion I had, 
But that catching a mouse was exactly as bad. 

Indeed I can say, with my paw on my hearty 
I would not have acted a mischievous part ; 
But, as dear mother Tabby was often repeating, 
I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating. 

Be this as it may, when my supper was o'er, 
And but a few feathers were left on the floor. 
Came Fanny — and scolding, and fighting, and crying. 
She gave me those bruises, of which I am dying 

But I feel that my breathing grows shorter apace. 
And cold, clammy sweats trickle down from my face: 



108 DAY. 

I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side — 
She stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died ! 



I 



DAY. 

The sun rises bright in the air, 

The dews of the morning are dry, 
Men and beasts to their labours repair. 

And the lark wings his way to the sky. 
Now, fresh from his moss-dappled shed, 

The husbandman trudges along. 
And, like the lark over his head. 

Begins the new day with a song. 

Just now, all around was so still, 

Not a bird drew his head from his wing^ 
Not an echo was heard from the hill, 

Not a water-fly dipped in the spring : 
Now everything wakes from its sleep, 

The shepherd-boy pipes to his flock, 
The common is speckled with sheep. 

And cheerfully clamours the cock. 

Now, winding along on the road, 
Half hid by the hedges so gay. 

The slow waggon drags with its load, 
And its bells tinkle, tinkle away. 



DAY. 109 

The husbandman follows his plough 
Across the brown fallow field's slope, 

And toils in the sweat of hih brow, 
Repaid by the pleasures of hope. 

The city, so noisy and wide. 

Wakes up to a thousand affairs ; 
Whfle business, and pleasure, and pride 

Alike are intent upon theirs : 
The merchant with dignified look ; 

My lord and my lady so grand ; 
The schoolboy, with satchel and book ; 

And the poor hackney horse to its stand. 

For the dews of the morning are flown. 

And the sun rises bright in the sky ; 
Alike in the field and the town 

Men and beasts to their labour apply. 
Now idle no hand must remain — 

Up, up, from the bed of repose; 
For evening is coming again. 

And time must be caught as it goes. 

And what is our life but a day ; 

A short one that soon will be o'er ; 
It presently passes away. 

And will not return any more * 



110 NIGHT. 

To-morrow may never arise. 
And yesterday's over and gone 

Then catch at to-day as it flies, 
Tis all we can reckon upon. 



\ 



KIGHT. 

No longer the beautiful day 

Is cheerful, and pleasant, and bright ; 
The shadows of evening gray 

Are closed in the darkness of night 
The din of employment is o'er, 

Kot a sound, not a whisper is heard ; 
The waggon-bell tinkles no more, 

And hushed is the song of the bird. 

The landscape, once blooming and fair. 

With every gay colour inlaid — 
The landscape, indeed, is still there. 

But all its fair colours are shada 
The sun sinking under the hiU, 

Is gone other mornings to make ; 
The bustle of business is still ; 

Only sorrow and sin are awake ! 

The busy hand, busy no more. 
Is sunk from its labours to rest ; 

Closed tight is each window and door. 
Where once the gay passengers pressed. 



KIOHT. Ill 

The houses of frolic and fun 

Are empty, and desolate all ; 
The din of the coaches is done. 

And the weary horse rests in. his stalL 

Just such is the season of death, 

Which comes upon each of us fast ! 
The bosom can't flutter with breath 

When life's little day-time is past. 
The blood freezes cold in its vein. 

The heart sinks for ever to rest ; 
Kot a fancy flits over the brain, 

Nor a sigh finds its way from the breast 

The tongue stiff and silent is grown. 

The pale lips move never again ; 
The smile and the dimple are flown, 

And the voice both of pleasure and pain. 
Clay-cold the once feverish head, 

The eye's pleasant flashing has ceased; 
And narrow and dark is the bed 

Where comes the grave-worm to its feast! 

But as, from the silence and gloom, 
Another bright morning shall rise, 

So, bursting awake from the tomb. 
We shall mount far away to the skies. 



112 DKAF MASXHA. 

And those wiio irith meekneaa wad prayer 
In the paths of r^igi<Ri h&ye trody 

SAuJl wOTship an ^orions there^ 
Among the archangels of €iod. 




DEAF MAETHA. 

POOB Martha is old, and her hair is turned gray, 
And her hearing has left her for man j a jear ; 

Ten to one if she knows what it is that jon say. 
Though she puts her poor withered hand dose to 
her ear. 

IVe seen naughty children ran after her fast, 

And cry, " Martha, ran, there's a ballock so boldj" 

And when she was frightened laugh at her at last, 
Because she believed the sad stories they told. 

IVe seen others put their mouths dose to her ear, 
And make signs as if they had something to say ; 

And when she said, '^Master, I'm deaf, and can't 
hear," 
Point at her and mock her, and scamper away. 

Ah ! wicked the children poor Martha to tease, 
As if she had not enough else to endure; 
ey rather should try her affliction to ease, 
And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure. 



THE PIN. 113 

One day, when those children themselves are grown 
old, 
And one may be deaf, and another be lame, 
Perhaps they may fbid that some children as bold 
May tease them, and mock them, and serve them 
the same. 

Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth, 
A faithful account will their consciences keep, 

And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the 
truth, 
That '< what a man soweth, the same shall he reap." 



THE PIN. 

" Deab me ! what signifies a pin ! 

I'll leave it on the floor ; 
My pincushion has others in, 

Mamma has plenty more : 
A miser will I never be," 
Said little heedless Emily. 

So tripping on to giddy play. 
She left the pin behind. 

For Betty's broom to whisk away. 
Or some one else to find ; 

(660) 8 




114 THE PIN 

She never gave a thought, indeed, 
To what she might to-morrow need. 

Next day a party was to ride 

To see an air-balloon : 
And all the company beside 

Were dressed and ready soon ; 
But she, poor girl, she could not stir, 
For just a pin to finish her. 

Twas vainly now, with eye and hand, 

She did to search begin ; 
There was not one— not one, the band 

Of her pelisse to pin ! 
She cut her pincushion in two, 
But not a pin had slidden through ! 

At last, as hunting on the floor, 

Over a crack she lay 
The carriage rattled to the door, 

Then rattled fast away. 
Poor Emily ! she was not in, 
For want of just — a single pin ! 

There's hardly anything so small. 

So trifling or so mean, 
That we may never want at all 

For service unforeseen : 



THE LITTLE BIRD's COMPLAINT TO HIS MISTBESS. 115 

And those wHo venture wilful waste 
May wof ul want expect to taste. 



THE LITTLE BIRD'S COMPLAINT TO 

HIS MISTRESS. 

Here in this wiry prison where I sing, 

And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly, 

Unable once to try my useless wing. 

Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky, 

Day after day the self-same things I see, 

The cold white ceiling, and this dreary house ; 

Ah ! how unlike my healthy native tree. 

Rocked by the winds that whistled through the 
boughs. 

Mild spring returning strews the ground with flowers. 
And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay. 

But no kind sunshine cheers my gloomy hours, 
Kor kind companion twitters on the spray ! 

Oh ! how I long to stretch my listless wings, 

And fly away as far as eye can see ! 
And from the topmost bough, where Robin sings. 

Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he. 



I 



116 THK jaSSBMS^B BKFLT TO BJOL LUTLJK BEKSL 

Why was I talcen from the waving nest. 

From flowery fields^ wide woodsy and liedges green; 

Tom from my t^ider motbiO^s downy breast. 
In. this sad pzisoa-hoaae to die xmaeecLl 

Why mxtst I hear, in. sammer evenings fine, 
A thousand happier birds m marry choirs f 

Atm? ly poor lonely I, in grief r^ine. 
Caged by these wooden walls and gcdden wires ! 

Say noty the tnnefal notes I daily pour 

Are songs of pleasure from a heart at ease ; 

They are but wailings at my prison door. 
Incessant cries to taste the opai breeze ! 

Kind mistress, come^ with gentle, pitying hand, 
TJnbar that curious grate and set me free ; 

Then on the whitethorn bush 111 take my stand. 
And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee: 




THE MISTRESS'S REPLY TO HER 
LITTLE BIRD. 

Dear little bird, don't make this piteous cry, 
My heart will break to hear thee thus complain ; 
ladly, dear little bird, Pd let thee fly, 
If that were likely to relieve thy pain. 



THE mistress's REPLY TO HER LITTLE BIRD. 117 

Base was the boy who climbed the tree so high, 
And took thee, bare and shivering, from thy nest; 

But no, dear little bird, it was not I, 

There's more of soft compassion in my breast 

But when I saw thee gasping wide for breath. 
Without one feather on thy callow skin, 

I begged the cruel boy to spare thy death. 
Paid for thy little life, and took thee in. 

Fondly I fed thee, with the tenderest care. 
And filled thy gaping beak with nicest food, 

Grave thee new bread and butter from my share. 
And then with duckweed green thy dwelling 
strewed. 

Soon downy feathers dressed thy naked wing. 
Smoothed by thy little beak with beauish care ; 

And many a summer's evening wouldst thou sing, 
And hop from perch to perch with merry air. 

But if I now should loose thy prison door. 
And let thee out into the world so wide. 

Unused to such a wondrous place before, 

Thou'dst want some friendly shelter where to hida 

Thy brother birds would peck thy little eyes. 
And fright the stranger from their woods away, 

Fierce hawks would chase thee trembling through the 
Or crouching pussy mark thee for her prey, [skies, 



118 THE TRUE HI8T0BY OF A POOB LITTLE MOUSE. 

Sad, on the lonely blackthorn wonldst thou sit, 
Thy mournful song unpitied and unheard ; 

And when the wintry wind and driving sleet 
Came sweeping o'er, they'd kill my pretty bird. 

Then do not pine, my favourite, to be free. 

Plume up thy wings, and clear that sullen eye ; 

I would not take thee from thy native tree. 
But now 'twould kiU thee soon to let thee fly. 



k 



THE TRUE HISTORY OF A POOR 
LITTLE MOUSE 

A POOB little mouse had once made him a nest, 
As he fancied, the warmest, and safest, and best 

That a poor little mouse could enjoy ; 
So snug and convenient, so out of the way. 
This poor little mouse and his family lay, 

They feared neither pussy nor boy. 

It was in a stove that was seldom in use. 

Where shavings and paper were scattered in loose^ 

That this poor little mouse made his hole ; 
But, alas ! Master William had seen him one day. 
As in a great fright he had scampered away 

With a piece of plum-pudding he stole. 



THE CHATTERBOX. 119 

As soon as young William (who, cruel and bad, 
Ko pitiful thoughts for dumb animals had) 

Descried the poor fellow's retreat, 
He crept to the shavings and set them alight. 
And before the poor mouse could run off in its fright, 

It was smothered to death in the heat ! 

Poor mouse ! how it died I can't bear to relate, 
Kor how all its little ones shared the same &ite. 

And sunk, one by one, in the flame ! 
Suppose we should hear, as we may do some night. 
That William's own bed-curtains catching alight, 

He suffered exactly the same ! 



THE CHATTERBOX. 

From morning till night it was Lucy's delight 
To chatter and talk without stopping ; 

There was not a day but she rattled away, 
like water for ever a-dropping. 

Ko matter at all if the subjects were small. 

Or not worth the trouble of saying, 
Twas equal to her, she would talking prefer 

To working, or reading, or playing. 

Youll think now, perhaps, that there would have been 
If she had not been wonderful clever ; [gaps, 



120 THE SNOWDROP. 

That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, 
It would be forthcoming for ever : 

But that's quite absurd ; for have you not heard 
That much tongue and few brains are connected 1 

That they are supposed to think least who talk most, 
And their wisdom is always suspected ) 

While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue 
With a little good sense and exertion, 

Who knows but she might now have been our delight, 
Instead of our jest and aversion 1 



THE SNOWDROP. 

I SAW a snowdrop on the bed. 
Green taper leaves among ; 

White as the driven snow, its head 
On the slim stalk was hung. 

The wintry wind came sweeping o'er, 

A bitter tempest blew : 
The snowdrop faded — never more 

To glitter with the dew. 

I saw a smiling infant laid 
In its fond mother's arms ; 

Around its rosy cheeks there played 
A thousand dimpling charms. 




THB YELLOW LEAF. 121 

A bitter pain was sent to take 

The smiling babe away ; — 
How did its little bosom shake, 

As in a fit it lay ! 

Its beating heart was quickly stopped; 

And in the earth so cold 
I saw the little coffin dropped, 

And covered up with mould. 

But Jesus Christ is full of love 

To babies when they die, 
And takes their happy souls above 

To be with him on high. 



THE YELLOW LEAF. 

I SAW a leaf come tilting down 

From a bare withered bough ; 
The leaf was dead, the branch was brown, 

No fruit was left it now. 

But much the rattling tempest blew 

The naked boughs among ; 
And here and there came whirHng through 

A leaf that loosely hung. 



122 pompey's complaint. 

The leaf, they tell me, once was green, 
Washed by the showers soft ; 

High on the topmost bough 'twas seen, 
And flourished up aloft 

I saw an old man totter slow. 
Wrinkled, and weak, and gray ; 

He'd hardly strength enough to go 
Ever so short a way. 

His ear was deaf, his eye was dim, 
He leaned on crutches high ; 

But while I stayed to pity him 
He seemed to gasp and die. 

This poor old man was once as gay 

As rosy health could be ; 
And death the youngest head will lay, 

Ere long, as low as he. 



POMPEY'S COMPLAHra. 

Stretched out on a dunghill all covered with snow, 
While round him blew many a pitiless blast. 

His breath short and painful, his pulse beating low. 
Poor honest old Pompey lay breathing his last. 



pompey's complaint. 123 

Bleak whistled the wind and loud bellowed the storm, 
Cold pelted upon him the half-frozen rain ; 

And amid the convulsions that shattered his form, 
Thus honest old Pompey was heard to complain : 

" Full many a winter I've weathered the blast, 

And plunged for my master through brierand bog; 
And in my old age, when my vigour is past, 
Tis cruel, I think, to forsake his poor dog. 

" IVe guarded his dwelling by day and by night, 
Impatient the roost-robbing gipsy to spy ; 
And put the stout rogue and his party to flight 
With only the look of my terrible eye. 

" On the heath and the mountain IVe followed his 
flocks, 
And kept them secure while he slept in the sun. 
Defended them safe from the bloodthirsty fox. 
And asked but a bone when my labour was done. 

" When he worked in the corn-field, with brawny hot 
back, 
I watched by his waistcoat beneath the tall tree ; 
And woe to the robber that dared to attack 
The charge that my master committed to me. 



124 pompet's complaint. 

" When jogging from market with bags full of gold. 
No moon to enliven his perilous way, 
Kor star twinkling bright through the atmosphere 
cold, 
I spied the pale robber, and kept him at bay. 

" One night, when, with cold overcome and opprest, 
He sunk by the wayside, benumbed in the snow, 
I stretched my warm bosom along on his breast. 
And moaned, to let kind-hearted passengers know. 



<t 



« 



Yes, long have I served him with courage and zeal, 
Till my shaking old bones have grown brittle and 

And 'tis an unkindness I bitterly feel 

To be turned out of doors, on a dunghill to die. 

I crawled to the kitchen with pitiful moan. 

And showed my poor ribs, that were cutting my 
skin, 

And looked at my master, and begged for a bone, 
But he said I was dirty, and must not come in. 



" But 'tis the last struggle, my sorrows are o'er ; 
'Tis death's clammy hand that is glazing my eye : 
The keen gripe of hunger shall pinch me no more, 
Nor hard-hearted master be deaf to my cry." 



THE LEAFY SPBING. 125 

THE LEAFY SPRING. 

I LOVE the pleasant spring, 

When buds begin to push, 
And flowers their nosegays bring 
To hang on every bush, 
Till stores of May, with snowy bloom. 
Fill the young hedgerows with perfume. 

Above the garden beds. 

Watched well by lady's eye, 
Snowdrops with milky heads 
Peep to the softening sky, 
And welcome crocuses shoot up, 
With gilded spike and golden cup. 

Oh, I some meadows know* 
Beside our good old town. 
Where millions of them grow. 
Just like a purple down ! 
They come, — ^but why, there's none can tell, 
Only we love to see them welL 

On pastures wide and green, 

Upon a thousand stems. 
Fit for a fairy queen 

To wear for precious gems, 

'* There is a beautiful spontaneous growth of the purple crocus every 
spring, in the meadows of Nottingham, the valley of the Trent 



126 THE UTDTG SFRCTG. 

Young cowslips smile at earth and sky. 
With sweetest breath and golden eye. 

And where the banks are wet 
With drops ci morning dew, 
The gentle violet 

Steals onty in hood ci blue, 
And primroses in dusters rise, 
like pretty, pale-foced families. 

I love the pleasant spring, 

Those days of warmth and lights 
When every leafy thing 
Comes peeping into sig^t ; 
It makes me feel, — I cannot tell 
How brisk and happy, kind and welL 



THE LIVING SPRING. 

I LOVE the pleasant spring, 

That, waking from their sleep. 
Bids every living thing 
Forth into daylight creep ; 
Those sunny days, so soft and warm, 
That make the little insects swarm. 

The fair white butterflies, 
Or those in gold and blue, — 



THE LIVING SPRING. 127 

Who makes them all so wise, 
As if the months they knew 1 
Where, all the winter, have they slept, 
That now they back again have crept ? 

And hark ! the merry songs 
That fill the pleasant air, 
The birds, in cheerful throngs, 
To build their nests prepare ; 
Those curious nests ! I would not spoil 
In foolish sport such days of toil 

Far in dark woods away 

The lonely cuckoo hides. 
With one soft word to say. 
And not a note besides ; 
Tis nice to hear the gentle bird 
Keep practising its pretty word 1 

Now see the swarming rooks 
On the fresh field alight — 
Like boys at lesson books, 
Chattering to say them right ; 
What funny talking, as they go. 
Young Master Rook and Mr. Crow ! 

And there the ploughman sings, 
Driving his polished share, 



128 THE POND. 

While up the skylark springs 
High in the morning air : 
Oh yes ! I love the pleasant spring, 
And so does every living thing I 



-% 



THE POND. 

There was a round pond, and a pretty pond too, 
About it white daisies and violets grew, 
And dark weeping willows, that stoop to the ground, 
Dipped in their long branches, and shaded it round. 

A party of ducks to this pond would repair, 

To sport 'mid the green water-weeds that grew there; 

Indeed the assembly would frequently meet. 

To discuss their afiairs, in this pleasant retreat. 

Now, the subjects on which they were wont to con- 
verse, 
I am sorry I cannot exactly rehearse ; 
For though IVe oft listened in hopes of discerning, 
I own 'tis a matter that baffles my learning. 

One day a young chicken that lived thereabout. 
Stood watching to see the ducks pop in and out, 
Now turning tail upward, now diving below ; 
She thought, of all things, she should like to do sa 



THE POND. 129 

So the poor silly chick was determined to try ; 
She thought 'twas as easy to swim as to fly ; 
Though her mother had told her she must not go 

near 
She foolishly thought there was nothing to fear. 

" My feet, wings, and feathers, for aught I can see, 
As good as the duck's are for swimming," said she ; 
''Though vny beak is pointed, and their beaks are 

round, 
Is that any reason that I should be drowned ? 

** Why should I not swim, then, as well as a duck ? 
I think I shall venture, and e'en try my luck : 
For/' said she (spite of all that her mother had 

taught her), 
** I'm really remarkably fond of the water." 

So in this poor ignorant animal flew. 

But soon found her dear mother's cautions were true : 

She splashed, and she dashed, and she turned herself 

round. 
And heartily wished herself safe on the ground. 

But now 'twas too late to begin to repent, — 
The harder she struggled the deeper she went ; 
And when every effort she vainly had tried, 
She slowly sank down to the bottom and died ! 

(666) 9 



130 THE ENGLISH GIBL. 

The dncks, I perceived, b^an loudly to qoack. 
When they saw the poor fowl floating dead on its 

back; 
And by their grave gestures and looks in diseonrsingy 
Obedience to parents were plainly enforcing. 



THE ENGLISH GIRL. 

Sporting on the village green. 
The pretty English girl is seen ; 
Or beside her cottage neat. 
Knitting on the garden seat 

Now within her humble door, 
Sweeping clean the kitchen floor ; 
While upon the wall so white 
Hang her coppers, polished bright. 

Mary never idle sits, 
She either sews, or spins, or knits; 
Hard she labours all the week, 
With sparkling eye and rosy cheek. 

And on Sunday Mary goes. 
Neatly dressed in decent clothes, 
Says her prayers (a constant rule). 
And hastens to the Sunday schooL 



THE SCOTCH LADDIE. 131 

Oh, how good should we be found 
Who Hve on England's happy ground ! 
Where rich and poor and wretched may 
All learn to walk in wisdom's way. 



THE SCOTCH LADDIE. 

Cold blows the north wind o'er the mountain so 

bare, 
Poor Sawney, benighted, is travelling there ; 
His plaid-cloak around him he carefully binds, 
And holds on his bonnet that's blown by the winds. 

Long time has he wandered his desolate way, 
That wound him along by the banks of the Tay; 
Now o'er this cold mountain poor Sawney must 

roam 
Before he arrives at his dear little homa 

Barefooted he follows the path he must go, 
The print of his footsteps he leaves in the snow; 
And while the white sleet patters cold on his face. 
He thinks of his home, and he quickens his paca 

But see I from afar he discovers a light 

That cheerfully gleams on the darkness of night ; 

And oh, what delights in his bosom arise ! 

He knows 'tis his dear little home that he spies. 



132 THE WELSH LAD. 

t 

And now, when arrived at his father's own door, 
His fears, his fatigues, and his dangers are o'er ; 
His brothers and sisters press round with delight 
And welcome him in from the storms of the night 

For though the bleak winds of the winter may 

blow 
TiU valleys and mountains are covered with snow, 
The storms of the north cannot chill or control 
The affection that glows in the Highlander's souL 



THE WELSH LAD. 

Over the mountain, and over the rock, 
Wanders young Taffy to follow his flock ; 
While far above him he sees the wild goats 
Gallop about in their shaggy warm coats. 

Often they travel in frolicsome crowds 
Up to the top that is lost in the clouds ; 
Then, as they spring to the valley again. 
Scale the black rocks that hang over the main. 

Now, when the day and his labours are o'er, 
Taffy sits down at his own cottage-door ; 
While all his brothers and sisters around 
Sit in a circle upon the bare ground. 



THE IRISH BOY. 133 

Then their good father, with spectacled nose, 
Keads the Bible aloud ere he takes his repose ; 
While the pale moon rises over the hill, 
And the birds are asleep, and all nature is still. 

Now with his harp old Llewelyn is seen, 
And joins the gay party that sits on the green; 
He leans in the door- way, and plays them a tune, 
And the children all dance by the light of the moon. 

How often the rich, in a city so gay, 
Where pleasure and luxury follow their way, 
When health quite forsakes them, and cheerfulness 

fails, 
Might envy a lad on the mountains of Wales ! 



THE IRISH BOY. 

Young Paddy is merry and happy, but poor; 
His cabin is built in the midst of a moor ; 
No pretty green meadows about it are found, 
But bogs in the middle and mountains around. 

This wild Irish lad is content with his store. 
Enjoys his potatoes, nor wishes for more. 
As he merrily sits, with no care on his mind, 
At the door of his cabin, and sings to the wind. 



134 IHB mSH BOT. 

Close down at his feet lies his shaggy old dog. 
Who has plunged with his master throng^ manj a 

hog: 
If FlMldj's wild song is oondnded too soon. 
Shag Inrks a loud dioms to finish the tnneL 

Poor Paddy, though mde, is still grateful and kind. 
Bat error and ignorance darkoi his mind. 
May the voice of religion and knowledge soon sound 
Within the low cabin where Paddy is found 1 

Then let us not langh at his bulls and his brogue. 
Nor, because he's an Irishman, call him a rogue ; 
But rather with kindness and diarify try 
His mind to instruct and his wants to supply 

And thus, while I sing of the wild Irish lad. 
The Welsh boy, and Scot^ with his bonnet and plaid, 
I think I shall never be tempted to roam 
From England, dear England, my own native 
homel 



% 



GREEDY RICHARD. 135 



GREEDY RICHARD. 

" I THINK I want some pies this morning," 
Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning ; 
So down he threw his slate and books, 
And saimtered to the pastry-cook's. 

And there he cast his greedy eyes 
Round on the jellies and the pies, 
So to select, with anxious care, 
The very nicest that was there. 

At last the point was thus decided : 
As his opinion was divided 
'Twixt pie and jelly, being loath 
Either to leave, he took them both. 

Now Richard never could be pleased 
To stop when hunger was appeased, 
But would go on to eat still more 
When he had had an ample stora 

" No, not another now," said Dick ; 
" Dear me, I feel extremely sick : 

I cannot even eat this bit ; 

I wish I had not tasted it." 



I 



136 6&EKDT RIGHABDl 

Then slowly rising frcnn his seat, 
He threw his cheesecake in the street^ 
And left the tempting pastry-cook's 
With very discontented look& 

Just then a man with woodoi leg 
Met Dick, and held his hat to b^. 
And while he told his monmfol case. 
Looked at him with imploring face. 

Dick, wishing to relieve his pain. 

His pockets searched, but searched in vain ; 

And so at last he did declare 

He had not left a farthing there. 

The beggar turned with face of grief 
And look of patient unbelief ; 
While Richard now his folly blamed. 
And felt both sorry and ashamed. 

** I wish," said he (but wishing 's vain), 
'* I had my money back again. 

And bad not spent my last to pay 

For what I only threw away. 

" Another time I'll take advice 
And not buy things because they're nice ; 
But rather save my little store 
To give to those who want it more." 



DIRTY JIM. 137 

DIRTY JIM. 

There was one, little Jim, 
'Tis reported of him, 

And must be to his lasting disgrace, 
That he never was seen 
With hands at all clean, 

Nor jet ever clean was his face. 

His friends were much hurt 
To see so much dirt, 

And often they made him quite clean ; 
But all was in vain. 
He got dirty again, 

And not at all fit to be seen. 

It gave him no pain 
To hear them complain, 

Nor his own dirty clothes to survey : 
His indolent mind 
No pleasure could foid 

In tidy and wholesome array. 

The idle and bad. 
Like this little lad. 

May love dirty ways, to be sure j 
But good boys are seen 
To be decent and clean, * 

Although they are ever so poor. 



138 THE FARM. 



THE FARM. 



Bright glows the east with blushing red. 
While yet upon their homely bed 

The sleeping labourers rest ; 
And the pale moon and silver star 
Grow paler still, and wandering far, 

Sink slowly to the west. 

And see, behind the sloping hill 

The morning clouds grow brighter still, 

And all the shades retire ; 
Slowly the sun, with golden ray, 
Breaks forth above the horizon gray. 

And gilds the distant spire. 

And now, at Nature's cheerful voice, 
The hills, and vales, and woods rejoice. 

The lark ascends the skies ; 
And soon the cock's shrill notes alarm 
The sleeping people at the farm, 

And bid them all arise. 

Then at the dairy's cool retreat 
The busy maids and mistress meet. 

The early hour to seize : 
Some tend with skilful hand the chums. 
Where the thick cream to butter turns. 

And some the curdling cheesa 



THE FARM. 139 

And now comes Thomas from the house, 
With well-known cry to daU the cows, 

Still resting on the plain ; 
They, quickly rising, one and all, 
Obedient to the daily call, 

Wind slowly through the lana 

And see the rosy milkmaid no^, 
Seated beside the homed cow, 

With mHking stool and pail ; 
The patient cow, with dappled hide, 
Stands still, unless to lash her side 

With her convenient tail. 

And then the poultry (Mary's charge) 
Must all be fed and let at large 

To roam about again : 
Wide open springs the great barn-door, 
And out the hungry creatures pibur 

To pick the scattered grain. 

The sun-burnt labourer hastens now 
To plod behind the heavy plough. 

And guide with skilful arm. 
Thus all is industry around; 
No idle hand is ever found 

Within the busy farm. 



140 READING — IDLENESS 



READING. 

" And so you do not like to spell, 
Mary, my dear ? oh, very well : 
Tis dull and troublesome, you say, 
And you would rather be at play 

" Then I shall go at once and look 
For Mary's pretty story-book ; 
The poems, and the hymns to say, 
Yes, I must take them all away. 

" Nay, do not fret, 'twere strange indeed 
To like your books, and not to read ! 
And if you do not wish to spell. 
To have no books will be as welL" 

Poor Mary sighed with grief and shame, 
And soon a tear of sorrow came ; 
She promised now, with humble looks. 
To learn to read her pretty books. 



IDLENESS. 



Some people complain they have nothing to do, 

And time passes slowly away ; 
They saunter about with no object in view, 

And long for the end of the day. 



IDLENESS. 141 

In vain are the trifles and toys they desire, 

For nothing they truly enjoy ; 
Of trifles, and toys, and amusements they tire, 

For want of some useful employ. 

When people have no need to work for their bread, 

And indolent always have been. 
Perhaps it may never come into their head 

That wasting their time is a sin. 

But time is a talent which none may abuse, 

Whatever their station may be ; 
The more they command it the less they should lose, 

Nor ever make leisure a plea. 

With active and useful employments combined 

Man ever is happy and blest ; 
Tis health to his body and strength to his mind. 

Which languish from indolent rest. 

Although for transgression the ground was accursed, 

Yet gratefully man must allow, 
Twas really a blessing which doomed him at flrst 

To live by the sweat of his brow. 



U2 



THE HOKSE. 

A FABLE. 

A HOB8E, long used to bit and bridle. 
But always much dispoeed to idle. 
Had often wished tliat he was able 
To steal mmoticed frcnn the stabla 

He panted frcnn his inmost soul 
To be at nobody's control, 
Go his own pace, slower or faster ; 
In short, do nothing for his master. 

But yet he ne'er had got at large. 
If Jack, who had him in his chaige, 
Had not, as many have before. 
Forgot to shut the stable-door. 

Dobbin, with expectation swelling. 
Now rose to quit his pleasant dwelling ; 
But first peeped out, with cautious fear. 
To examine if the coast were clear. 

At length he ventured from his station. 
And with extreme self-approbation. 
As if delivered from a load, 
He galloped to the public road. 



THE HORSE. 143 

And here he stood a while debating, 
Till he was almost tired of waiting, 
Which way he'd please to bend his course 
Now there was nobody to force. 

At last, unchecked by bit or rein, 
He sauntered down a grassy lane. 
And neighed forth many a jocund song. 
In triumph, as he passed along. 

But when dark night began to appear. 
In vain he sought some shelter near j 
And well he knew he could not bear 
To sleep out in the open air. 

The earth was damp, the grass felt raw. 
Much colder than his master's straw ; 
Yet on it he was forced to stretch, 
A poor, cold, melancholy wretch. 

The night was dark, the country hilly. 
And Dobbin felt extremely chilly ; 
Perhaps a feeling like remorse 
Just then might sting the truant horsa 

As soon as day began to dawn, 
Dobbin, with long and weary yawn, 
Arose from this his sleepless night, 
But in low spirits and bad plight. 



146 MISCHIEF. 

MISCHIEF. 

Let those who are fond of idle tricks, 
Of throwing stones and hurling bricks. 

And all that sort of fun, 
Now hear a tale of idle Jim, 
That warning they may take by him, 

Nor do as he has dona 

In harmless sport or healthful play 
He did not pass his time away, 

Nor took his pleasure in it : 
For mischief was his only joy ; 
No book, or work, nor even toy, 

Could please him for a minute. 

A neighbour's house he'd slyly pass. 
And throw a stone to break the glass, 

And then enjoy the joke ! 
Or, if a window open stood. 
He'd throw in stones or bits of wood, 

To frighten all the folk. 

If travellers passing chanced to stay, 
Of idle Jim to ask the way. 

He never told them right ; 
And then, quite hardened in his sin, 
Bejoiced to see them taken in. 

And laughed with all his might. 



THE SPIDER. 147 

He'd tie a string across the street, 
Just to entangle people's feet, 

And make them tumble down. 
Indeed, he was disliked so much. 
That no good boy would play with such 

A nuisance to the town. 

At last the neighbours, in despair. 
This mischief would no longer bear ; 

And so — ^to end the tale — 
This lad, to cure him of his ways, 
Was sent to spend some dismal days 

Within the county jaiL 



THE SPIDER 

" Oh, look at that great ugly spider !" said Ann ; 

And, screaming, she brushed it away with her fan. 
" Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be ; 

I wish that it would not come crawling on me." 

" Indeed," said her mother, " I'll venture to say. 
The poor thing will try to keep out of your way ; 
For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain. 
It has much more occasion than you to complain. 

" But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear 1 
If it hitrt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear; 



148 THE COW AND THE AS& 

But its little black l^s, as it hurried away. 

Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say. 

'* For ^^^771 to fear us we most grant to be just^ 
Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust ; 
But certainly toe have no cause for alarm, 
For, were they to try, they could do us no harm. 

" Now look ! it has got to its home ; do you see 
What a delicate web it has spun in the tree 1 
Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you : 
Come learn from this spider what patience can do ! 

** And when at your business you're tempted to play. 
Recollect what you see in this insect to-day ; 
Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, 
That a poor little spider is wiser than you." 



THE COW AND THE ASa 

Beside a green meadow a stream used to flow, 
So clear, one might see the white pebbles below ; 
To this cooling brook the warm cattle would stray. 
To stand in the shade on a hot summer's day. 

A cow, quite oppressed by the heat of the sun. 
Came here to refresh, as she often had done. 



THE COW AND THE ASS. 149 

And standing quite stiU, stooping over the stream. 
Was musing, perhaps, or perhaps she might dream. 

But soon a brown ass, of respectable look, 
Came trotting up also to taste of the brook, 
And to nibble a few of the daisies and gras& 
"How d'ye do?" said the cow. "How d'ye dol" 
said the ass. 

"Take a seat," said the cow, gently waving her 

hand. 
" By no means, dear madam," said he, " while you 

stand." 
Then stooping to drink, with a complaisant bow, 
" Ma'am, your health," said the ass. " Thank you, 

sir," said the cow. 

When a few of these compliments more had been 

passed, 
They laid themselves down on the herbage at last ; 
And waiting politely (as gentlemen must), 
The ass held his tongue, that the cow might speak 

first. 

Then, with a deep sigh, she directly began : — 
" Don't you think, Mr. Ass, we are injured by man ? 
'Tis a subject which lies with a weight on my mind; 
We really are greatly oppressed by mankind. 



i 



150 THE COW AND THE ASS. 

'^ Fray what is the reason (I see none at all) 
That I always mnst go when Jane chooses to call 1 
Whatever I'm doing ('tis certainly hard), 
I'm forced to leave off, to be milked in the yard. 

" I've no will of my own, but mnst do as they 

please, 
And give them my milk to make butter and 

cheese; 
Sometimes I endeavour to kick down the pail, 
Or give her a box on the ear with my tail" 

''But, ma'am," said the ass, ''not presuming to 
teach — 

Oh dear, I beg pardon — pray finish your speech ; 

Excuse my mistake," said the complaisant swain ; 
" Go on, and I'll not interrupt you again." 

" Why, sir, I was just then about to observe, 
Those hard-hearted tyrants no longer 111 serve ; 
But leave them for ever to do as they please, 
And look somewhere else for their butter and 
cheese." 

Ass waited a moment, his answer to scan, 
And then, " Not presuming to teach," he began, 
" Permit me to say, since my thoughts you invite, 
I always saw things in a different Ught 



THE BLIND SAILOR. 151 

" That you afford man an important supply, 
No ass in his senses would ever deny ; 
But then, in return, 'tis but fctir to allow, 
They are of some service to you. Mistress Cow. 

" lis their pleasant meadow in which you repose. 
And they find you a shelter from winterly snows. 
For comforts like these we're indebted to man ; 
And for him, in return, should do all that we can." 

The cow, upon this, cast her eyes on the grass, 
Not pleased to be schooled in this way by an ass : 
"Yet," said she to herself, "though he's not very 
I really believe that the fellow is right" [bright. 



THE BLIND SAILOR 

A SAILOR, with a wooden leg, 

A little charity implores; 
He holds his tattered hat to beg — 

Come, let us join our little stores. 
Poor sailor ! we ourselves might be 
As helpless and as poor as he. 

" A thousand thanks, my lady kind, 
A thousand blessings on your head ; 
A flash of lightning struck me blind. 
Or else I would not beg my bread. 



152 THE BLIND SAILOR. 

I pray that you may never be 
A poor blind wanderer like me. 

'' I watched amid the stormy blasts 

While fearful thunders rent the clouds; 

A flash of lightning split the mast. 

And danced among the bellowing shrouds : 

That moment to the deck I fell 

A poor, unhappy spectacle. 

" From that tremendous, awful night, 
IVe never seen the cheerful day ; 

No, not a spark of glimmering light 
Has shone across my darksome way. 

That light I valued not before 

Shall bless these withered eyes no mora 

" My little dog, a faithful friend, 

Who with me crossed the stormy main, 
Doth still my weary path attend, 

And comfort me in all my pain ; 
He guides me from the miry bog^- 
My poor, half -famished, faithful dog ! 

" With this companion at my side, 

I travel on my lonely way ; 
And God Almighty will provide 

A crust to feed us day by day. 
Weep not for me, my lady kind ; 

Almighty God protects the blind." 



THE WORM. 153 



THE WORM. 

No, little worm, you need not slip 
Into your hole with such a skip; 
Drawing the gravel as you glide 
Over your smooth and slimy side. 
I'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, 
Peeping about your hole to spy, 
And carry you with me in the air, 
To give my young ones each a shara 
No; and I'm not a rolling stone. 
Creaking along with hollow groan. 
Nor am I one of those, I'm sure, 
Who care not what poor worms endure, 
But trample on them as they lie, 
Rather than take a step awry ; 
Or keep them dangling on a hook. 
Choked in a dismal pond or brook. 
Till some poor fish comes swimming past 
And finishes their pain at last 
For my part, I could never bear 
Your tender fiesh to hack and tear, 
Forgetting, though you do not cry, 
That you may feel as much as I, 
If any giant should come and jump 
On to my back and kill me plump. 



154 FIBB. 

Or run my heart through with a scythe, 
And think it fun to see me writhe. 

Oh no, I only look about, 
To see you wriggling in and out, 
And drawing up your slimy rings, 
Instead of feet like other things ; 
So, little worm, you need not slip 
Into your hole with such a skip. 



\ 



FIRE. 

What is it that shoots from the mountain so high, 

In many a beautiful spire ? 
What is it that blazes and curls to the sky 1 

This beautiful something is — ^fire. 

Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan. 

Hot cinders fall thicker than snow, 
Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown; 

For burning fire rages below. 

When winter blows bleakly, and bellows the storm. 

And frostily twinkle the stars ; 
When bright bums the fire in the chimney so warm. 

And the kettle sings shrill on the bars ; 



AIR. 155 

Then, call the poor traveller in, covered with snow, 

And warm him with charity kind : 
Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow 

In the friendly benevolent mind. 

By fire, rugged metals are fitted for use- 
Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin ; 

Without its assistance we could not produce 
So much as a minikin pin. 

Fire rages with fury wherever it comes ; 

If only one spark should be dropped, 
Whole houses, or cities, sometimes, it consumes. 

Where its violence cannot be stopped. 

And when the great morning of judgment shall rise. 

How wide will its blazes be curled ! 
With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies, 

And bum up this beautiful world. 



AIR 

What is it that winds about over the world. 
Spread thin, like a covering fair 1 

Into each little comer and crevice *tis curled; 
This wonderful fluid is — air. 



156 AIR. 

In summer's still evening how gently it floats, 

When not a leaf moves on the spray, 
And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes 

And merry gnats dancing away. 

The village-bells glide on its bosom serene, 

And steal in sweet cadence along ; 
The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, 

And the cottage girls join in the song. 

But oft in the winter it bellows aloud. 

And roars in the northerly blast ; 
With fury drives onward the snowy blue cloud, 

And cracks the tall, tapering mast 

The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies. 

In billows and fringes of foam ; 
And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes 

Towards his dear, peaceable home. 

When fire lies and smothers, or gnaws through the 
Air makes it more fiercely to glow ; [beam, 

And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream. 
If the wind should with violence blow. 

In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak 

That many a tempest had known ; 
The tall mountain-pine into splinters is broke. 

And over the precipice blown. 



EARTH. 157 

And yet, though it rages with fury so wild 

On solid earth, water, or fire, 
"Without its assistance the tenderest child 

"Would struggle, and gasp, and expire. 

Pure air, pressing into the curious clay, 
Gave breath to these bodies at first ; 

And when in the bosom it ceases to play, 
We crumble again to our dust. 



EARTa 

What is it that's covered so richly with green, 

And gives to the forest its birth 1 
A thousand plants bloom on its bosom serene : 

"Whose bosom 1 — the bosom of earth 

Hidden deep in its bowels the emerald shines. 

The ruby, and amethyst blue ; 
And silver and gold glitter bright in the mines 

Of Mexico rich and Peru. 

Large quarries of granite and marble are spread 
In its wonderful bosom, like bones ; 

Chalk, gravel, and coals ; salt, sulphur, and lead; 
And thousands of beautiful stones. 



158 WATKB. 

Beasts, savage and tame, of all colours and forms, 
Either stalk in its deserts, or creep ; 

White bears sit and growl to the northerly storms, 
And shaggy goats bound from the steep. 

The oak and the snowdrop, the cedar and rose, 

Alike on its surface are seen ; 
The tall fir of Norway, surrounded with snows. 

And the mountain-ash, scarlet and green. 

Fine grass and rich mosses creep over its hills; 

Flowers breathe their perfume to the gale ; 
Tall water- weeds dip in its murmuring rills, 

And harvests wave bright in the vale. 

And when this poor body is cold and decayed. 
And this warm, throbbing heart is at rest ; 

My head upon thee, Mother Earth, shall be laid, 
To find a long home in thy breast. 



WATER 

What is it that glitters in changeable green, 

Or dances in biUows so bright? 
Ships, skimming along on its surface, are seen.- 

'Tis water — that beautiful sight ! 




WATER. 159 

Sea-weeds wind about in its cavities wet, 

The pearl-oyster quietly sleeps ; 
A thousand fair shells, yellow amber and let : 

A^d coral grows re^ Lite deeps. 

Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, 
While hoarsely the winter wind roars; 

And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north, 
And wander along by our shores. 

When tempests awaken its waves from their sleep, * 

Like giants in fury they rise ; 
The ships now appear to be lost in the deep, 

And now carried up to the skies. 

It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill ; 

Among the smooth pebbles it strays ; 
Creeps low in the valley, or roars through the mill, 

And wanders in many a maze. 

The traveller that crosses the desert so wide. 

Hot, weary, and stifled with dust. 
Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side 

To quench in its waters his thirst 

The stately white swan glides along on its breast, 

Nor ruffles its surface serene ; 
And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest 

To dabble in ditch-water green. 



160 TIT FOR TAT. 

The clouds, blown abont in the chilly bine sky. 

Vast cisterns of water contain 
Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly, 

In summer stream gently in rain. 

When sunbeams so bright on the idling drops shine, 

The arch of the rainbow comes o'er. 
And glows in the heavens, a beautiful sign 

The waters shall drown us no more. 



X 



TIT FOR TAT. 

" Tit for tat" is a very bad word 

As frequently people apply it ; 
It means, as I've usually heard. 

They intend to revenge themselves by it : 
Tet places there are where 'tis proper and pat. 
And there I permit them to say " tit for tat" 

Old Dobbin, that toils with his load, 

Or gallops with master or man, 
Don't lash him so fast on the road, 
You see he does all that he can : 
How long has he served you ? do recollect that. 
And treat him with kindness, 'tis but '' tit for tat" 



TIT FOR TAT. 161 

Poor Brindle, that lashes her tail, 

And trudges home morning and night, 
Till Dolly appears with her pail, 
To milk out the fluid so white — 
Don't kick the poor creature, and beat her, and that. 
To be kind to poor Brindle is but " tit for tat" 

Gray Donkey, the sturdy old ass. 

That jogs with his panniers so wide, 
And wants but a mouthful of grass, 
Or perhaps a green thistle beside ; 
Be merciful, master, he can't carry that : 
Poor donkey, they surely fqrget " tit for tat" 

There's honest old Tray in the yard, 

What courage and zeal has he shown ! 
TVould be both ungrateful and hard 
Not to throw the poor fellow a bone. 
He carries your basket, and fetches your hat ; 
Fm sure that to starve him is not ** tit for tat" 

Poor Puss, that runs mewing about, 

Her white bosom sweeping the ground ; 
The mother abused and kicked out, 
And her innocent little ones drowned. 
Remember, she catches the mischievous rat : 
Then be kind to poor Pussy, 'tis but "tit for tat" 

(666) 11 



162 JANE AJTD ELIZA. 

Whatever shows kindness to us. 

With kindness we ought to repay — 
Brindle, Donkey, Tray, Dobbin, and Pass, 
And everything else in its way : 
In -cases like these it is proper and pat 
To make use of the maxim, and say, '' Tit for tat' 



JANE AND ELTZA. 

There were two little girls, neither handsome nor 

plain; 
One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane. 
They were both of one height, as IVe heard people say; 
They were both of one age, I believe, to a day. 

'Twas fancied by some who but slightly had seen them 
That scarcely a difference was there between them ; 
But no one for long in this notion persisted, 
So great a distinction there really existed. 

Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing 
While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing; 
And therefore in company artfully tried, 
Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide. 

So when she was out, with much labour and pain. 
She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane; 




ELIZA AND JANE. 163 

But then you might see that, in forcing a smile, 
Her mouth was uneasy and ached all the while. 

And in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall 
That some cross event happened to ruin it all ; 
And because it might chance that her share was the 

worst, 
Her temper broke loose and her dimples dispersed. 

But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, 
And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, 
Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, 
But her face always showed what her bosom was 
feeling. 

At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, 
A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. 
And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtain 
The aflfection that freely was given to Jane. 



ELIZA AND JANE. 

Cheer up, my young friends, I have better news 



now,- 



Eliza has driven the scowl from her brow ; 
For finding her labours so little could win, 
She turned from without to the evils within. 



164 

7wa8 & gFBSt deal at taraFa&l& sL fizat^ X confeaB^ — 
HffT ismper would, riae^ and was bard to repress; 
But beizig % gjii of some aenae and diaixmfn^ 
;3ie would not be siaopped hj ihs trouMe a£ tnmiiig. 

Ten. times in. & dsar — or pez^aps in an. Iioor — 
Would pu^on. or fretfalneaB atrug^ for pow«r ; 
But deaf to the witiapefs of weakness or jBride^ 
For YTcXdoarj taoL tinies the harder she 



Sometimes siie would kneel in her dbamher and pray 
That God in. his mercj would take Umdei awa j ; 
And He^ who is pleased with a pexLitoifs cij, 
Bciwed down in compaasMn and heJ^ied ha" to try. 

Now, at home <^ abroad, there is peace in her smile, 
A dieeifnl good nature that needeth no guile ; 
And Eliza no long^ is heard to complain 
That she is not beloved like her plaj-fellow Jane. 




THE BABY. 

Safe sleeping on its nipther^s breast, 
The smiling babe appears; 

Now sweetly fiinking into rest, 
Now washed in sudden tears : 

Hush, hush, my little baby dear, 

There's nobody to hurt you here. 



THE BABY. 165 

Without a mother's tender care 

The little thing must die ; 
Its chubby hands so soft and fair 

No service can supply ; 
And not a tittle can it tell 
Of all the things we know so welL 

The lamb sports gaily on the grass 

When scarcely bom a day ; 
The foal beside its mother ass 

Trots frolicsome away ; 
And not a creature, tame or wild, 
Is half so helpless as a child. 

To nurse the dolly gaily drest. 

And stroke its flaxen hair, 
Or ring the coral at its waist. 

With silver bells so fair. 
Is all the little creature can, 
That is some day to be a man. 

Full many a summer's sun must glow, 

And lighten up the skies. 
Before its tender limbs can grow 

To anything of size ; 
And all that time the mother's eye 
Must every little want supply. 



1^6 THK POOR QLD MAS. 

Thaa. surri'r. whsai eac& little Jmsh 
;3uJI grcnr tao heaLdiT sdze, 

4nrt vmuJt ami nuinluxxi stroistim liim 
For Tsil and eotoproey 

Hia nm^usr^a trrufneag is a debt 

He never, never wiH fiorgeiL 




THE POOR OLD MAK 

Ah! who £a it tottos tJaag, 

And leans oa the top of Ids stkkl 
Hia wrmkks are mmnj and longy 

And his beard is grown sl1t»' and thick. 
No vigoor enlLTens bis frame. 

No cbe^folness beams in bis eye, 
JHs limbs are €zi£eebled and lame. 

And be seons as if going to die. 

The^r tell me be once was as ga j 

As I, in mj merriest mood; 
That brisUj be carolled fwaj. 

With spirits that nothing snbdued ; 
That he clambered high over the rocks, 

To search where the sea-bird had been; 
And followed his ventoresome flocks 

Up and down on the mountain so green. 



T9E POOR OLD MAN. 1G7 

But now what a change there appears! 

How altered his figure and face I 
Bent low with a number of years, 

How feeble and slow is his pace! 
He thought a few winters ago, 

Old age was a great while to come; 
And it seems but as yesterday now 

That he frolicked in vigour and bloom. 

He thought it was time enough yet 

For death and the grave to prepare, 
And seemed all his life to forget 

How fast time would carry him there. 
He sported in spirits and ease. 

And thought it too soon to repent, 
Till all in a hurry he sees 

The bright opportunity spent. 

Now, weak with disorder and years, 

And tottering into the dust, 
Oh I he would give rivers of tears 

To have minded religion at first 
He spends his few sorrowful days 

In wishing his life could return; 
But, alas I he has wasted the blaze, 

And now it no longer will bum. 



168 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 



THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 

A DUCK who had got such a habit of stuffing, 
That all the day long she was panting and puffing, 
And by every creature who did her great crop see 
Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy. 

One day, after eating a plentiful dinner, 

With full twice as much as there should have been 

in her, 
While up to her forehead still greedily roking, 
Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choking. 

Now there was an old fellow much famed for dis- 
cerning, 
(A drake, who had taken a liking for learning,) 
And high in repute with his feathery friends, 
Was called Dr. Drake : for this doctor she senda 

In a hole of the dunghill was Dr. Drake's shop. 
Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop — 
Small pebbles, and two or three different gravels. 
With certain famed plants he had found in his travels. 

So taking a handful of suitable things, 
And brushing his topple and pluming his wings. 
And putting his feathers in apple-pie order 
lie went to prescribe for the lady's disorder. 



THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 169 

" Dear sir," said the duck, with a delicate quack, 
Just turning a little way round on her back, 
And leaning her head on a stone in the yard, 
** My case. Dr. Drake, is exceedingly hard. 

" I feel so distended with wind, and opprest, 

So squeamish and faint, such a load at my chest ; 

And, day after day, I assure you it is hard, 

To suffer with patience these pains in my gizzard." 

" Give me leave," said the doctor with medical look, 

As her cold, flabby paw in his fingers he took. 

" By the feel of your pulse, your complaint, IVe been 

thinking, 
Must surely be owing to eating and drinking." 

" Oh no, sir, believe me," the lady replied 
(Alarmed for her stomach, as well as her pride), 
" I'm sure it arises from nothing I eat, 
But I rather suspect I got wet in my feet 



t« T> 



IVe only been raking a bit in the gutter. 
Where cook has been pouring some cold melted 

butter 
And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold 

meat. 
Just a trifle or two that I thought I could eat" 



170 THB LITTLE CRIPPLE'S COMPLAINT. 

The doctor was just to his business proceeding 
By gentle emetics, a blister, and bleeding, 
When all on a sudden she rolled on her side, 
Grave a terrible quack, and a struggle, and died. 

Her remains were interred in a neighbouring swamp, 
By her friends with a great deal of funeral pomp; 
But IVe heard this inscription her tombstone dis- 
played, 
*' Here poor Mrs. Duck, the great glutton, is laid ; " 
And all the young ducklings are brought by their 

friends, 
There to learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends. 




THE LITTLE CRIPPLE'S COMPLAINT. 

• 

I'm a helpless cripple child, 
Gentle Christians, pity me ; 

Once in rosy health I smiled, 
Blithe and gay as you can be. 

And upon the village green 

First in every sport was seen. 

Now, alas ! I'm weak and low,* 
Cannot either work or play ; 

Tottering on my crutches, slow. 
Thus I drag my weary way ; 



THE LITTLE CRIPPLE'S COMPLAINT. 171 

Now no longer dance and sing 
Graily in the meny ring. 

Many sleepless nights I live, 

Turning on my weary bed ; 
Softest pillows cannot give 

Slumber to my aching head ; 
Constant anguish makes it fly 
From my heavy, wakeful eya 

And, when morning beams return, 
Still no comfort beams for me ; 

Still my limbs with fever bum. 
Painful still my crippled knee. 

And another tedious day 

Passes slow and sad away. 

From my chamber window high, 

Lifted to my easy-chair, 
I the village-green can spy. 

Once / used to frolic there, 
March, or beat my new-bought drum j— 
Happy times 1 no more to come. 

There I see my fellows gay 

Sporting on the daisied turf, 
And, amidst their cheerful play, 

Stopped by many a merry laugh ; 



172 POOR donkey's epitaph. 

But the sight I scarce can bear. 
Leaning in my easy-chair. 

Let not then the scoffing eye 
Laugh, my twisted leg to see : 

Gentle Christians, passing by, 
Stop awhile, and pity me ; 

And for you 1*11 breathe a prayer. 

Leaning in my easy-chair. 



'^ 



POOB DONKEY'S EPITAPH. 

Down in the ditch poor Donkey lies 
Who jogged with many a load ; 

And till the day death closed his eyes, 
Browsed up and down this road. 

'No shelter had he for his head, 
Whatever winds might blow ; 

A neighbouring common was his bed, 
Though dressed in sheets of snow. 

In this green ditch he often strayed 

To nip the dainty grass ; 
And friendly invitations brayed 

To some more hungry ass. 



POOR donkey's epitaph. 173 

Each market-day he jogged along 

Beneath the gardener's load, 
And snored out many a donkey's song 

To friends upon the road. 

A tuft of grass, a thistle green, 

Or cabbage-leaf so sweet, 
Were all the dainties he was seen 

For twenty years to eat. 

And as for sport, the sober soul 

Was such a steady Jack, 
He only now and then would roll, 

Heels upward, on his back. 

But all his sport, and dainties too, 

And labours now are o'er: 
Last night so bleak a tempest blew, 

He could withstand no more. 

He felt his feeble limbs grow cold. 

His blood was freezing fast, 
And presently you might behold 

Poor Donkey dead at last. 

Poor Donkey ! travellers passing by 

His cold remains will see ; 
And 'twould be well if all who die 

As useful were as ha 



174 THE ORPHAN. 



THE ORPHAN. 

Mt father and mother are dead, 
Nor friend nor relation I know ; 

And now the cold earth is their bed, 
And daisies wiU over them grow. 

I cast my eyes into the tomb, 
The sight made me bitterly cry ; 

I said, " And is this the dark room 

Where my father and mother must lie 1 " 

I cast my eyes round me again, 
In hopes some protector to see ; 

Alas 1 but the search was in vain. 
For none had compassion on ma 

I cast my eyes up to the sky, 

I groaned, though I said not a word ; 

Yet God was not deaf to my cry, 
The Friend of the fatherless heard. 

For since I have trusted his care. 
And learned on his word to depend, 

He has kept me from every snare. 
And been my best Father and Friend. 



RISING IN THE MORNING. 175 



mSING IN THE MORNING. 

Thrice welcome to my opening eyes, 
The morning beam, which bids me rise 

To all the joys of youth ; 
For thy protection whilst I slept, 
O Lord, my humble thanks accept. 

And bless my lips with truth. 

Like cheerful birds, as I begin 
This day, oh keep my soul from sin, 

And all things shall be welL 
Thou givest health, and clothes, and food ; 
Preserve me innocent and good 

Till evening's curfew bell.* 



GOING TO BED AT NIGHT. 

Receive my body, pretty bed ; 
Soft pillow, oh receive my head ; 

And thanks, my parents kind, 
For comforts you for me provide ; 
Your precepts still shall be my guide, 

Your love I'll keep in mind. 

* Cnrfew Bell was ordered by William the Conqueror to be mng at 8 
o'clock at night, at the sound of which all flres and lights were to be extin- 
gnished. The word curfew comes from the French couvrejeu, cover fire. 



176 FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISE. 

My hours misspent this day I me; 
My good things done, how very few ! 

Forgive my faults, O Lord ; 
This night, if in thy grace I rest, 
To-morrow may I rise refreshed, 

To keep thy holy word. 



FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISR 

" My Fanny, I have news to tell : 
Your diligence quite pleases me ; 
You've worked so neatly, read so well, 
With cousin Jane you may take tea. 

" But pray remember this, my love, 
Although to stay you should incline, 
And none but you should think to move, 
I wish you to return at nina" 

With many thanks the attentive child 
Assured mamma she would obey : 

Whom tenderly she kissed, and smiled, 
And with the maid then went away. 

Arrived, the little girl was shown 
To where she met the merry band ; 

And when her coming was made known. 
All greet her with a welcome bland 



^ 



FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISE. 177 

They dance, they play, and sweetly sing, 
In every sport each one partakes ; 

And now the servants sweetmeats bring, 
With wine and jellies, fruit and cakes. 

Then comes papa, who says, " My dears, 

The magic-lantern if you'd see. 
And that which on the wall appears, 

Leave off your play and follow ma" 

While Frances too enjoyed the sight. 
Where moving figures all combine 

To raise her wonder and delight. 

She hears, alas 1 the clock strike nine. 

"Miss Fanny's maid for her is come." — 
" Oh dear, how soon ! " the children cry ; 
They press, but Fanny will go home, 
And bids her little friends good-bye. 

" See, dear mamma, I have not stayed." 
" Good girl, indeed," mamma replies; 
" I knew you'd do as you had said. 

And now you'll find you've won a prize. 

" So come, my love, and see the man 

Whom I desired at nine to calL" 
Downstairs young Frances quickly ran. 

And found him waiting in the halL 
(666) 12 



178 KT OLD SH08SL 

^ H^e, miasy are pretty birds to buy, 
A parrot or macaw so gay ; 
A speckled dove with scarlet eye, 
A linnety or a chattering jay. 

** Would yoa a JaTa sparrow lovel " 

** No, no, I thank yon," said the child ; 
" m have a beauteoos cooing doTe, 
So harmless^ innocent, and mikL" 



(( 



Your choice, my Fanny, I commend. 
Few birds can with the dove compare ; 

Bnt, lest it pine without a friend, 
I give you leave to choose a pair.'' 



MY OLD SHOES. 

You're now too old for me to wear, poor shoes, 

And yet I will not sell you to the Jews ; 

Yon wandering little boy must barefoot go 

Through mud and rain, and nipping frost and snow; 

And as he walks along the road or street, 

The flint is sharp, and cuts his tender feet 

My shoes, though old, might save him many a pain ; 

And should I sell them, what might be my gaini 

A sixpence, that would buy some foolish toy : 

No ; take these shoes, poor, shivering^ barefoot boy. 



A new-year's gift. 179 



TO GEORGE PULLING BUDS. 

Don't pull that bud, it yet may grow 

As fine a flower as this ; 
Had this been pulled a month ago, 
We should its beauties miss. 
You are yourself a bud, my blooming boy ; 
Weigh well the consequence, ere you destroy. 
Lest for a present paltry sport you kill a future joy. 



A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. 

A CHABMiNa present comes from town, 

A baby-house so neat ; 
With kitchen, parlour, dining-room, 

And chambers all complete. 

A gift to Emma and to Rose, 

From grandpapa it came ; 
The little Rosa smiled delight, 

And Emma did the same. 

They eagerly examined all — 

The furniture was gay ; 
And in the rooms they placed their dolls 

When dressed in fine array. 



i 



180 A ISKW'YEARS GIFT. 

At niglit their litde familj 

Must tenderly be fed ; 
And then, when dollies were undressed. 

They all were put to bed. 

Thus Rose and Emma passed each hoary 

Devoted to their play ; 
And long were cheerful, happy, kind — 

Nor cross dis^tes had they, 

Till Rose in baby-house would change 
The chairs which were below : 
'^ This carpet they would better suit ; 
I think m have it sa" 

" No, no, indeed," her sister said. 
" I'm older, Rose, than you ; 
And I'm the mistress, you the maid, 
Ajid what I bid must do." 

The quarrel grew to such a height, 
Mamma she heard the noise, 

And coming in, beheld the floor 
All strewed with broken toya 

" Oh, ^e^ my Emma ! fie, my Rose ! 
Say, what is this about 1 
Remember, this is New Year's Day, 
And both are going out" 



A new-year's gift. 181 

Now Betty calls the little girls 

To come upstairs and dress.; 
They still dispute, with muttered taunts, 

And anger they express. 

But just prepared to leave their room, 

Persisting yet in strife, 
Bose sickening fell on Betty's lap. 

As if devoid of life. 

Mamma appeared at Betty's call; 

John for the doctor goes ; 
And some disease of dangerous kind 

Its symptoms soon disclose. 

** But though I stay, my Emma, you 

May go and spend the day." 
" Oh no, mamma," replied the child ; 
" I must with Bosa stay. 

" Beside my sister's bed I'll sit, 
And watch her with such care ; 
No pleasure can I e'er enjoy 
Till she my pleasure share. 

" How silly now seems our dispute ; — 
Not one of us she knows ! 
How pale she looks, how hard she breathes ! 
Alas ! my pretty Rose ! " 



1 82 THE CRUKL THORN. 



THE CRUEL THORN. 

A BIT of wool sticks here upon this thorn : 
Ah, croel thorn, to tear it from the sheep ! 

And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn, 
Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap. 

The wool a little bird takes in his bill, 
And with it up to yonder tree he flies ; 

A nest he's building there with matchless skill, 
Compact and dose that well the cold defies. 

To line that nest, the wool, so soft and warm, 
Presences the eggs which hold its tender young ; 

And when they're hatched, that wool will keep from 
harm 
The callow brood, until they're fledged and strong: 

Thus birds find use for what the sheep can spare : 
In this, my dear, a wholesome moral spy. 

And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share, 
Let thy abundance thus their wants supply. 




THE linnet's nest. 183 



THE LINNETS NEST. 

" My linnet's nest, miss, will you buy ? 
They're nearly fledged." — " Ah I no, not I ; 
I'll not encourage wicked boys 
To rob a parent of its joys ; 
Those tender joys to feed its young, 
And see them grow up brisk and strong ; 

" With care the helpless brood to nourish. 
And see them plume, and perch, and flourish ; 
To hear them chirp, to hear them sing. 
Teach them to try the little wing, 
And view them chanting on the tree 
The charming song of liberty. 

" 'Twould make me grieve to see them mope 
Within a cage, devoid of hope, 
And all the joys that freedom owns, — 
The prisoner's melodies are moans. 
I love their song ; yet give to me 
The cheerful note that sings, * I'm free.' " 



184 THE ITALIAN GBETHOUKD. 



THE ITALIAN GREYHOUND. 

Lightly as the rose-leaves fall, 
By the zephyr scattered round. 

Let thy feet, when thee I call, 
Fatting softly touch the ground. 

Happy I to think thou'rt mine ! 

Grentle greyhound, come apace ; 
Beauty's form in every line, 

Every attitude is grace. 

Speaking eyes thou hast — why shrink 1 
'Neath my hand why tremble sol 

Beauteous greyhound, dost thou think 
Harm from me ? — Believe me, no. 

Cruel dogs and savage men 

Himt a wretched hare for miles ; 

Guiltless greyhound, here lie then, 
Court thy mistress for her smiles. 



THE USE OF SIGHT. 185 



THE USE OF SIGHT. 

" What, Charles returned ! " papa exclaimed ; 
" How short your walk has been. 
But Thomas — Julia — where are they ? 
Come, tell me what youVe seen." 

" So tedious, stupid, dull a walk ! " 
Said Charles ; " I'll go no more : 
First stopping here, then lagging there, 
O'er this and that to pora 

" I crossed the fields near Woodland House, 
And just went up the hill ; 
Then by the river-side came down, 
Near Mr. Fairplay's mill." 

Now Tom and Julia both ran in j — 
" Oh, dear papa ! " said they, 
" The sweetest walk we both have had ; 
Oh, what a pleasant day ! 

" Near Woodland House we crossed the fields. 

And by the mill we cama" 
" Indeed ! " exclaimed papa, " how's this 1 

Your brother took the sama 



186 THE USE OF SIGHT. 

" But very dull he found the walk. 
What have you there 1 let's see : — 
Come, Charles, enjoy this charming treat, 
As new to you as me." 

*' First look, papa, at this small branch. 
Which on a tall oak grew. 
And by its slimy berries white 
The mistletoe we knew. 

" A bird all green ran up a tree, 
A woodpecker we call, 
Who with his strong bill wounds the bark 
To feed on insects smalL 

« And maiiy lapwings cried ' Peewit ; ' 
And one among the rest 
Pretended lameness, to decoy 
Us from her lowly nest 

" Young starlings, martins, swallows, all 
Such lively flocks, and gay ; 
A heron, too, which caught a fish, 
And with it flew away. 

" This bird we found, a kingfisher. 

Though dead, his plumes how bright ! 
Do have him stuffed, my dear papa, 
'Twill be a charming sight 



THE USB OP SIGHT. 187 

" When reached the heath, how wide the space, 
The air how fresh and sweet ! 
We plucked these flowers and different heaths, 
The fairest we could meet. 

" The distant prospect we admired— 

The mountains far and blue ; 

A mansion here, a cottage there : 

And see the sketch we drew. 

" A splendid sight we next beheld, 
The glorious setting sun, 
In clouds of crimson, purple, gold ; 
His daily race was done." 



li 



True taste with knowledge," said papa, 
" By observation's gained ; 
YouVe both used well the gift of sight, 
And thus reward obtained. 



" My Julia in this desk will find 
A drawing-box quite new ; 
And, Thomas, now this telescope, 
I think, is quite your due. 

" And toys, or still more useful gifts. 
For Charles, too, shall be bought. 
When he can see the works of God, 
And prize them as he ought." 



188 THE morning's task. 



THE MORNING'S TASK. 

" Sit to your books," the father said, 
** Nor play nor trifle, laugh nor talk ; 
And when at noon you've spelt and read, 

I'll take you all a pleasant walk." 
He left the room, the boys sat still, 
Each gravely bent upon his task, 
Except the youngest, little Will, 
Who yet of this and that would ask. 

*' I've lost my ball," the prattler cried ; 
" Has either of you seen my ball ? " 
" Pray mind your book," young Charles replied; 
" Your noisy talk disturbs us alL 
Remember now what we were told; 

The time, I warn you. Will, draws near." 
" And what care I ? " said Will, so bold ; 
" I shall be ready, never fear." 

He spun his top, he smacked his whip. 

At marbles also he would play, 
And round the room he chose to skip, 

And thus his moments slipped away. 
But at the window what comes in ? 

A dazzling painted Wtterfly : 



THE morning's TASK. 189 

" A prize ! a prize which I must win ! " 
Young William loud is heard to cry. 

Quick on the table up he leaps, 

Then on the chairs and sofa springs ; 
Now here, now there he softly creeps, 

And now his books and hat he flings. 
The brilliant insect fluttered round,* 

And out again it gaily flew ! 
Then through the window, with a bound. 

Will jumped, and said, " I'll soon have you." 

From flower to flower the boy it led. 

While he pursued the pretty thing ; 
Away it sprang from bed to bed, 

Now sipping dew, now on the wing. 
Then to the fields it took its flight : 

He thought the prize was worth the chase ; 
O'er hedge and ditch, with all his might, 

He followed still the pleasing raca 

To catch it he was much perplexed, 

The insect now he sees no more ; 
While standing thus confounded, vexed. 

He hears the village clock strike four. 
Towards home he hastens at the soimd, 

All shame, surprise, and fear, and doubt ; 
Sisters nor brothers could be foimd ; 

He asks, and hears they're all gone out. 



i 



190 THE OAK. 

With sorrow struck, when this was told. 

He wept, and down in sadness sat 
Now o*er the stones a carriage rolled. 

And at the door came — ^rat, tat, tat. 
Then from the coach the girls and boys 

Stepped out, all smiling, pleased, and gay, 
And books, and dolls, and pretty toys, 

Bats, ninepins, hoops, and kites had they. 

" Ah, William ! *' then the father said, 
" Come hither, child ; — but wherefore cry 1 
Why droop your face, why hang your head 1 

Where is the pretty butterfly 1 
I kept my promise, home I came, 

According to my first intent ; 
You broke your word, and yours the shame, 
And we without you shopping went" 



THE OAK. 

The oak, for grandeur, strength, and noble size, 

Excels all trees that in the forest grow ; 
From acorn small that trunk, those branches rise, 

To which such signal benefits we owa 
Behold what shelter in its ample shade 

From noon-tide sim or from the drenching rain! 
And of its timber stanch vast ships are made, 

To bear rich cargoes o'er the watery main. 



CARELESS MATILDA. 191 



CARELESS MATILDA. 

" AaAiN^ Matilda, is your work undone ! 
Your scissors, where are they? your thimble, gone? 
Your needles, pins, and thread and tapes all lost ; 
Your housewife here, and there your work-bag tossed. 

" Fie, ^e, my child ! indeed this will not do, 
Your hair uncombed, your frock in tatters too ; 
I'm now resolved no more delays to grant, 
To learn of her I'll send you to your aunt." 
In vain Matilda wept, entreated, prayed, 
In vain a promise of amendment made. 

Arrived at Austere Hall, Matilda sighed, 
By Lady Rigid when severely eyed : 
" You read and write, and work well, as I'm told, 
Are gentle, kind, good-natured, and not bold; 
But very careless, negligent, and wild — 
You'll leave me, as I hope, a different child." 

The little girl next mom a favour asks : 
" I wish to take a walk." — " Go, learn your tasks," 
Replies her aunt, " nor fruitlessly repine : 
Your room you'll leave not till you're called to dine." 
As there Matilda sat, o'erwhelmed with shame ; 
A dame appeared. Disorder was her name : 



192 CARELESS MATILDA. 

i 

Her hair and dress neglected — soiled her face, 

Her mien unseemly and devoid of grace. 

" Here, child," said she, " my mistress sends you this, 
A bag of silks — a flower, not worked amiss — 
A polyanthus bright, and wondrous gay; 
You'll copy it by noon, she bade me say." 
Disorder grinned, and shuffling walked away. 

Entangled were the silks of every hue. 

Confused and mixed were shades of pink, green, 

blue. 
She took a thread, compared it with the flower : 

" To finish this is not within my power. 
Well-sorted silks had Lady Bigid sent, 
I might have worked, if such was her intent" 
She sighed, and melted into sobs and tears. 
She hears a step, and at the door appears 
A pretty maiden, clean, well dressed, and neat, 
Her voice was soft, her looks sedate, yet sweet. 

" My name is Order ; do not cry, my love ; 
Attend to me, and thus you may improve." 
She took the silks, and drew out shade by shade, 
In separate skeins, and each with care she laid ; 
Then smiling kindly, left the little maid. 

Matilda now resumes her sweet employ. 

And sees the flower complete — how great her joy ! 



CARELESS MATILDA. 193 

She leaves the room — " IVe done my task," she cries; 
The lady looked, and scarce believed her eyes ; 
Yet soon her harshness changed to glad surprise : 
" Why, this is well ! a very pretty flower. 
Worked so exact, and done within the hour ! 
And now amuse yourself, and walk or play." 
Thus passed Matilda this much dreaded day. 
At all her tasks, Disorder would attend ; 
At all her tasks, still Order stood her friend. 
With tears and sighs her studies oft began, 
These into smiles were changed by Order's plan. 
No longer Lady Eigid seemed severe ; 
The negligent alone her eye need fear. 

And now the day, the wished-for day, is come, 

When young Matilda may revisit home. 

" You quit me, child, but oft to mind recall 

The time you spent with me at Austere HalL 

And now, my dear. 111 give you one of these 

To be your maid — take with you which you please. 

What ! from Disorder do you frightened start 1 " 

Matilda clasped sweet Order to her heart, 

And said, " From thee, best friend, 111 never part." 



im) 13 



194 THE MUSHROOM GIRL. 



THE MUSHROOM GIRL. 

*Tis surely time for me to rise, 
Though yet the dawn is gray ; 

Sweet sleep, oh quit my closing eyes, 
For I must now away : — 
Each young bird twitters on the spray. 

It is not for the dewy mead 

I leave my soft repose, 
Where daisies bloom and lambkins feed, 

But where the mushroom grows ; 

And that my widowed mother knows. 

Ill rove the wide heath far and near, 
Of mushrooms fine in quest ; 

But you remain, kind mother, here. 
Lie still and take your rest. 
Although with poverty oppressed. 

No toad-stool in my basket found ; 
My mushrooms when I sell, 

111 buy some bread ; our labours crowned, 
Then let our neighbours tell 
That you and I live wondrous welL 



BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES. 195 

BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES. 

The Dog will come when he is called. 

The Cat will walk away ; 
The Monkey's cheek is very bald ; 

The Goat is fond of play ; 
The Parrot is a prate apace, 

Yet knows not what he says ; 
The noble Horse will win the race, 

Or draw you in a chaise. 

The Pig is not a feeder nice; 

The Squirrel loves a nut ; 
The Wolf would eat you in a trice; 

The Buzzard's eyes are shut; 
The Lark sings high up in the air, 

The Linnet in the tree ; 
The Swan he has a bosom fair. 

And who so proud as he ? 

Oh yes, the Peacock is more proud, 

Because his tail has eyes; 
The Lion roars so very loud. 

He'd fill you with surprise ; 
The Haven's coat is shining black. 

Or, rather, raven gray ; 
The Camel's bunch is on his back ; 

The Owl abhors the day. 



196 BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES. 

The Sparrow steals the cherry ripe ; 

The Elephant is wise ; 
The Blackbird charms you with his pipe ; 

The false Hyena cries ; 
The Hen guards well her little chicks ; 

The Cow — her hoof is slit ; 
The Beaver builds with mud and sticks ; 

The Lapwing cries "Peewit." 

The little Wren is very small, 

The Humming-bird is less ; 
The Lady-bird is least of all, 

And beautiful in dress ; 
The Pelican she loves her young, 

The Stork its parent loves ; 
The Woodcock's bill is very long ; 

And innocent are Doves. 

The streaked Tiger's fond of blood; 

The Pigeon feeds on peas ; 
The Duck will gobble in the mud ; 

The Mice will eat your cheese ; 
A Lobster's black, when boiled he's red; 

The harmless Lamb must bleed ; 
The Cod-fish has a clumsy head ; 

The Goose on grass will feed. 

The lady in her gown of silk 
The little Worm may thank ; 



BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES. 197 

The sick man drinks the Ass's milk ; 

The Weasers long and lank ; 
The Buck gives us a venison dish 

When hunted for the spoil ; 
The Shark eats up the little fish ; 

The Whale produces oiL 

The Glow-worm shines the darkest nighty 

With lantern in its tail ; 
The Turtle is the cit's delight, 

And wears a coat of mail. 
In Germany they hunt the Boar. 

The Bee brings honey home; 
The Ant lays up a winter store ; 

The Bear loves honey-comb. 

The Eagle has a crooked beak ; 

The Plaice has orange spots ; 
The Starling, if he's taught, will speak ; 

The Ostrich walks and trots. 
The child that does not these things know 

Might well be called a dunce ; 
But I in knowledge quick will grow, 

For youth can come but once. 



198 THE VINE. 




THE VIKK 

'TwAs holiday -timey and young Harry was gay, 
Though bleak the wide landscape around ; 

'Twas Christmas, and homeward he tripped it away, 
For hard was the frost-bitten ground. 

He ran through the garden, the pleasure-grounds too, 

The walks and dark alleys he traced ; 
Admired the tall cypress, the privet, and yew, 

And holly with red berries graced. 

The laurel and bay, and such fine evergreens, 

In verdure and beauty arose ; 
He stopped at a tree, and he cried out, '* What means 

This leafless old tree among those 1 

" Dig it up, pull it down — ^not a leaf on its spray, 

No shelter is here for the birds ! " 
But his father replied, " I hear what you say ; 

Next autumn remember your worda" 

And now, as was promised, that autumn was come, 

Young Harry left school for a week ; 
And ripe was the nectarine, ripe was the plum. 

And peach too with down on its cheek. 



THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 199 

When straight to the garden our schoolboy repaired, 
Where fruit hung all tempting and fine, 
" What tree," he exclaimed, " can at all be compared, 
Papa, with this beautiful vine ? 

*' What bunches ! what clusters ! the sight is a treat ! 
So charming I never did see ! 
The sight is delicious ; the flavour how sweet ! 
Papa, what a beautiful tree ! " 

" This tree," said papa, ** is the one you despised, 
Which then looked so withered and bare ; 
But you see, by exterior few things can be prized : 
Of hasty decisions beware. 

" Eemember, my child, not to judge by the eye 
Of those who in form do not shine ; 
And now gain a lesson, of use by-and-by, 
From your folly in spuming the vine." 



THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFR 

In a dark little crack, half a yard from the ground. 

An honest old spider resided ; 
So pleasant, and snug, and convenient 'twas found. 
That his friends came to see it from many miles round : 

It seemed for his pleasure provided. 



200 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 

0£ the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life, 

This spider was thoroughly tired ; 
So, leaving those scenes of distraction and strife 
(His children all settled), he came with his wife 

To live in this cranny retired. 

He thought that the little his wife would consume, 

Twould be easy for him to provide her ; 
Forgetting he lived in a gentleman's room, 
Where came, every morning, a maid and a broom, 
Those pitiless foes to a spider ! 

For when (as sometimes it would chance to befall) 

The moment his web was completed, 
Brush — came the great broom down the side of the wall, 
And, perhaps, carried with it web, spider, and all, 

He thought himself cruelly treated. 

One day, when their cupboard was empty and dry 

His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner) 
Said to him, " Dear, go to the cobweb and try 
If you can't find the leg or the wing of a fly. 

Just a bit of a relish for dinner." 

Directly he went, his long search to resume 

(For nothing he ever denied her), 
Alas ! little guessing his terrible doom ; 
Just then came the gentleman into the room, 

And saw the unfortunate spider. 



THE POPPY. 201 

So while the poor insect, in search of his pelf, 

In the cobweb continued to linger, 
The gentleman reached a long cane from the shelf, 
(For certain good reasons, best known to himself, 

Preferring his stick to his finger). 

Then presently poking him down to the floor, 

Nor stopping at all to consider, 
With one horrid crash the whole business was o'er : 
The poor little spider was heard of no more, 

To the lasting distress of his widow ! 



THE POPPY. 

High on a bright and sunny bed 

A scarlet poppy grew. 
And up it held its staring head 

And thrust it full in view. 

Yet no attention did it win 
By all these efforts made. 

And less unwelcome had it been 
In some retired shade. 

Although within its scarlet breast 
No sweet perfume was found. 

It seemed to think itself the best 
Of all the flowers around. 



202 THE VIOLET. 

From this may I a hint obtain, 
And take great care indeed, 

Lest I appear as pert and vain 
As does this gaudy weed. 



THE VIOLET. 

Down in a green and shady bed, 

A modest violet grew ; 
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head 

As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower. 
Its colour bright and fair ; 

It might have graced a rosy bower, 
Instead of hiding there. 

Yet thus it was content to bloom, 
In modest tints arrayed ; 

And there diffused a sweet perfume 
Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go 
This pretty flower to see. 

That I may also learn to grow 
In sweet humiUty. 



THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 203 



THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 

How pleasant it is at the end of the day- 
No follies to have to repent, 

But reflect on the past, and be able to say, 
My time has been properly spent ! 

When r ve finished my business with patience and 
And been good, and obHging, and kind, [care, 

I lie on my pillow, and sleep away there. 
With a happy and peaceable mind. 

Instead of all this, if it must be confessed 
That I careless and idle have been, 

I lie down as usual, and go to my rest. 
But feel discontented within. 

Then, as I dislike all the trouble I've had, 

In future I'll try to prevent it ; 
For I never am naughty without being sad, 

Or good, without being contented. 



COII^ENTED JOHN. 



One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, 
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer ; 
For all such vain wishes to him were prevented 
By a fortunate habit of being contented. 



204 CONTENTED JOHN. 

Though cold were the weather, or dearwere the food, 
John never was found in a murmuring mood ; 
For this he was constantly heard to declare, 
What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear. 

" For, why should I grumble and murmur 1" he said, 
" If I cannot get meat, 111 be thankful for bread ; 

And though fretting may make my calamities 
deeper, 

It never can cause bread and cheese to be cheaper." 

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain. 
He wished himself better, but did not complain. 
Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow. 
But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 

If any one wronged him, or treated him ill. 
Why, John was good-natured and sociable still ; 
For he said that revenging the injury done 
Would be making two rogues where there need be 
♦ but one. 

And thus honest John, though his station was 
humble, [grumble ; 

Passed through this sad world without even a 

And 'twere well if some folk, who are greater and 
richer, 

Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 



THE GAUDY FLOWER. 205 



THE GAUDY FLOWER 

"Why dqes my Anna toss her head, 
And look so scornfully around, 

As if she scarcely deigned to tread 
Upon the daisy-dappled ground ? 

Does fancied beauty fire thine eye, 
The brilliant tint, the satin skin ? 

Does the loved glass, in passing by, 
Keflect a graceful form and thin? 

Alas ! that form, and brilliant fire, 
Will never win beholder's love ; 

It may, indeed, make fools admire, 
But ne'er the wise and good can mova 

So grows the tulip, gay and bold. 
The broadest sunshine its delight ; 

Like rubies, or like burnished gold, 
It shows its petals, glossy bright 

But who the gaudy floweret crops, 
As if to court a sweet perfume ! 

Admired it blows, neglected drops. 
And sinks unheeded to its doom. 



\ 



206 NEGLIGENT MART. 

The virtues of the heart may move 
Affections of a genial kind ; 

While beauty fails to stir our love, 
And wins the eye, but not the mind. 



NEGLIGENT MARY. 

Ah, Mary ! what, do you for dolly not care ? 

And why is she left on the floor ? 
Forsaken, and covered with dust, I declare ; 

With you I must trust her no more. 

I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, 
When on your birthday she was sent ; 

Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly ? 
Was that, do you think, what I meant I 

With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted. 

And trimmed it so pretty with pink ; 
But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted : 

Her nurse quite forgets her, I think. 

Suppose now — for Mary is doUi/ to me, 

Whom I love to see tidy and fair — 
Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see. 

In tatters, and comioT\»\efa!& tk<&re. 



DECEMBER NIGHT. 207 

But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, 

Nor cares for her negligent nurse: 
If I were as careless as you are, I fear. 

Your lot, and my fault, would be worse. 

And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive 

To check every fault that I see : 
Mary's doll is but waxen — mamma's is alive^ 

And of far more importance than she. 



DECEMBER NIGHT. 

Dark and dismal is the night, 
Beating rain and wind so high ! 

Close the window-shutters tight. 
And the cheerful fire draw nigh. 

Hear the blast in dreadful chorus 
Koaring through the naked trees, 

Just like thunder bursting o'er us ; 
Now they murmur, now they cease. 

Think how many on the wild 

Wander in this dreadful weather ; 

Some poor mother with her child, 
Scarce can keep her rags together. 



208 



Or a wretched £aiiul j 

'Xeath some mad-w&lled mined shed 
Shrugging close together, lie 

On the earth — their onl j bed. 

While we sit within so warm. 
Sheltered, comfortable, safe, 

Think how manj bide the storm. 
Who no home nor shelter have 

Glad, these sorrows conld we lighten. 
We who suffer no such woe ; 

Let, at least, contentment bri^ten 
Every tranquil hour we know. 



POVERTY. 

I SAW an old cottage of clay. 
And only of mud was the floor ; 

It was all falling into decay, 

And the snow drifted in at the door. 

Yet there a poor family dwelt. 
In a hovel so dismal and rude ; 

And though gnawing hunger they felt, 
They had not a morsel of food. 



THE VILLAGE GREEN. 209 

The children were crying for bread, 
And to their poor mother they'd run : 
" Oh, give us some breakfast," they said. 
Alas ! their poor mother had none. 

She viewed them with looks of despair ; 
She said (and I'm sure it was true), 
" 'Tis not for myself that I care. 

But, my poor little children, for you." 

Oh, then, let the wealthy and gay 

But see such a hovel as this, 
That in a poor cottage of clay 

They may know what true misery is. 

And what I may have to bestow 

I never will squander away, 
While many poor people I know 

Around me are wretched as they. 



THE VILLAGE GREEK 

On the cheerful village green, 
Skirted round with houses small. 

All the boys and girls are seen. 
Playing there with hoop and balL 
(e66) 14 



210 THE VILLAGE GREEN. 

Now they frolic liand in liand, 
Making many a merry chain ; 

Then they form a warlike band. 
Marching o'er the level plain. 

Now ascends the worsted ball. 
High it rises in the air, 

Or against the cottage wall. 
Up and down it bounces thera 

Then the hoop, with even pace, 
Huns before the merry throngs : 

Joy is seen in every face, 

Joy is heard in cheerful songs. 

Kich array, and mansions proud, 
Gilded toys, and costly fare, 

Would not make the little crowd 
Half so happy as they are. 

Then, contented with my state, 
Where true pleasure may be seen, 

Let me envy not the great. 
On a cheerful village green. 



\ 



RUIN AND SUCCESS. 211 

RUIN AND SUCCESS. 

PART I. — THE RACE-HORSE. 

" Indeed ! " said my lord to his steward, " 'tis droll I 
The mare and the she-ass, you say, 
This morning have each had a beautiful foal, 
Two capital gifts in one day ! 

** Fve promised the first to my neighbour the squire, 
The other bestow as you will." 
The steward, fulfilling his lordship's desire. 
Gave Jack to poor Joe near the mill. 

With care and expense the fine colt was brought up. 

So elegant, sleek, and so slim ; 
What joy when he started and won a prize cup — 

Then no horse was equal to him ! 

Expense was increased : he was exercised, trained ; 

At first many matches he won ; 
But once losing more than he ever had gained. 

His master, the squire, was undone. 

PART II. — THE ASS. 

The other present, poor Jack Ass, 

A different training had ; 
And thus with him it came to pass. 

His lot was very bad. 



212 RUIN AND SUCX^ESS. 

No groom had he ; nor oats, nor hay, 

Were offered to his taste ; 
And hot or cold, through night and day. 

He wandered on the waste. 

His master's sons, three ragged boys, 

At once upon him rode ! 
And as they had no other toys. 

They teased him with a goad. 

Although his usage was unkind, 

He never did them wrong ; 
He ate his thistles, never pined, 

And grew up stout and strong. 

• 

Poor Joe cut fagots in the wood, 

And carried them to sell ; 
But for the ass to bear the load 

He thought might be as well 

To dig his garden he would stay, 
And send to town his son ; 

Thus gained more money every day 
Tlian he before had done. 

His garden now had beans and peas, 

Potatoes sweet and big ; 
He bought a hen, and ducks and geese ; 

At length he bought a pig. 



DEW AND HAIL. 213 

And off the waste, with money earned, 

He bought a piece of land ; 
And this same Joe — a farmer turned — 

Had always cash in hand 

Yet not unmindful of poor Jack, 

That helped him so to rise, 
Provides him now a plenteous rack, 

And stable, where he lies. 

Thou art," says he, " poor beast, grown old, 

Thy toilsome days are o'er ; 
No hunger shalt thou feel, nor cold. 

And thou shalt work no more. 



" With grateful care I grant to thee 
This comfortable shed ; 
When I had none, thou gain*dst for me 
My hard-earned daily bread." 



(( 



DEW AND HAIL. 

Young Tommy most things well discerned : 

He read and understood ; 

His memory was good ; 
He taught his little sister what he learned. 



214 DEV ASD HAH. 

8ud he, *"I]s morn, but br-and^iT. 

Tho0e dews thjU wet oar feet. 

The sun will b j its heat 
Draw up in dooda^ to hang around the sky. 

*' At eve, when he withdraws his powos, 

Those dews then gently £sll. 

At night refreshing all. 
The tender grass, the plants, and blooming flowefs. 



(( 



Those small white stones, that kill the grab and snail. 
Are frozen water-drops, these we call hail ; 
The large ones, that descend in mighty force, 
A vast way come, and gather in their coarse : 
Passing through r^ons cold, of ice and snow. 
They still congeal, and large and larger grow — 
So large, that one has weighed near half a pound : 
Some are like stars, some oblong, most are round ; 
Some hang on trees, like icicles or spars : 
Those come with thunder that are shaped like stars ; 
Some have killed birds, broke windows, slates, and 

tiles, 
And scattered devastation round for miles. 
The Lord, though merciful, is yet severe ; 
And while we love him, let us also fear." 



I 



CRUST AND CRUMB. 215 



CRUST AND CRUMB. 

I can't eat all my bread, indeed ; 

Mamma yet says I must : 
This piece of crumb I do not need ; 

IVe eaten all the crust. 

We never should throw bread away, 

It is a sin to waste ; 
Yon poor boy's glances seem to say, 
" I wish I had a tasta" 

Step hither, and you shall have some ; 

Come here, my little man ; 
You think there's crust, 'tis only crumb ; 

But eat it if you can. 

He eats with such delightful glee, 
His eyes are brimmed with joy ; 

How very hungry he must be. 
Unhappy little boy ! 

The day of hunger and distress 

As yet I never knew ; 
And for the plenty I possess, 

Lord i my thanks are due. 



216 THE TRUANT. 

And now I feel another's grie^ 
And now myself I know ; 

Whene'er mj heart would give relief 
My hand shall not be slow. 



THE TRUANT. 

Ah ! why did I, unthinking yonth. 
From school a truant stay ; 

To parents why not tell the truth. 
And then for pardon pray 1 

My parents both are good and kind, 

Though master is severe : 
With weeping I am almost blind ; 

Oh ! I shall perish here. 

« 

The night comes on, the air is sharp, 
And now it blows a storm ; 

The pinching wind my skin doth warp, 
My features soft deform. 

As in the stream my face I viewed, 

That face to me was new ; 
The buflfetings of breezes rude 

Have changed it black and blua 



THE TRUANT. 217 

My clothes are by the brambles torn, 

My legs are wounded sore ; 
My friends to see my limbs would mourn, 

These limbs all stained with gore. 

I in some well or ditch may fall. 

And there, when I am found, 
Strangers will pity me, and all 

Will say, " The boy is drowned ! " 

This place is lonely, wild, and drear, 

Nor stay the night I durst; 
111 lay me down and perish here. 

With hunger and with thirst. 

I see a light ! a light 'tis plain * 

A Jack-o'-lantern 1 no I 
It comes from yonder cottage pane, 

And to that cot I'll go. 

No beggar-boy, alas ! am I ; 

Oh, give me shelter, pray, 
Or else with hunger I shall die, 

For I have lost my way. 

Or on some straw, or on the floor. 

This night, oh 1 let me lie ; 
Or else the cold I must endure 

Beneath this bitter sky. 



218 THE TRUAXT. 

And let me wash my face and feet ; 

Then give a little food ; 
The plainest fare will be a treaty 

Dear woman, kind and good. 

To-morrow morning take me home ; 

Youll hearty thanks receive : 
My father *s rich, though wild I roam ; 

My tale you may believa 

If you should have a child distressed, 

My grief with pity see ; 
With such a friend may he be blessed. 

As you shall pity ma 



THE END. 




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HYMNS FOR INFANT MINDS, and Original Hjrmns 
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8. WHO WERE THE FIRST MINERS? 

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6. WHO WERE THE FIRST WEAVERS? 

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Each with Coloured Frontispiece, an Illuminated Side, 
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1. BERTHA MARCHMONT; or, AU is not Gold that 

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2. FANNY SILVESTER; or, A Merry Heart doeth Good 

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8. BLUFF CRAG ; or, A Good Word Costs Nothingr. 

4. HUGH WBLLWOOD'S SUCCESS; or. Where there's 

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7. LITTLE MAY AND HER FRIEND CONSCIBNCR 

By M. Parrott. 

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£ach lUuatrated by Numerous Woodcuts. lHuminated Side. 18mo. 

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2. A KIND ACTION NEVER THROWN AWAY; or, 

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4. THE LOST RABBIT; or. Look at Everything: and 

Touch Nothingr. 
6. UNCLE DICK'S STORY; or. What Cant be Cured 

Must be Endured. 
6. TIM LEESON'S FIRST SHILLING; or,TryAfirahi. 

These stories are sure to interest children. They are full of pictures, 
and in a bright, lively manner, convey some valuable moral lesson 
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4. STORIES FOR LITTLE READERS— Try Afifain, &a 
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6. A KISS FOR A BLOW. By H. C. Wright. 

7. LITTLE CLARA. By Mrs. Ajsnuk Bachb. 

8. GRACE AND CLARA ; or. Be Just as Well as Generous. 

9. SUN SHINE AND SHADE ; or. The Denham Family. 

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11. HAR RY BURNE, and Other Stories. 

12. THE SISTER, and Other Stories. 

♦» — 



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6. The Sick Healed. 
6. Robin's Ride. &a 



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6. False Friends. && 



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LESSONS ON THB LIFE OF CHRIST FOR THE 
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LITTLE LILY'S TRAVELS. With Coloured Frontispieoe, and 
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ILLUSTRATED BOOK OF SONGS FOR CHILDREN. 
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THE ILLUSTRATED BOOK OF NURSERY RHYMES 
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